


In our hearts, a hopeful song

by Adara_Rose



Series: Mages&Templars AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Good Templars (Dragon Age), M/M, Mages & Templars AU, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: Newly-bonded Dorian is a mage with a dark secret. His bondmate, Icthlarin, is a man with a questionable past. As they take the first, halting steps to falling in love, the obstacles mount against them. Can they learn to trust in each other, or will their insecurities rip them apart?Meanwhile, The Iron Bull and Wren Trevelyan are in that difficult borderland between friends with benefits and lovers... and time is not on their side.There is more to love than passion and great sex - but will they figure that out before their song ends?





	1. A most unusual templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down an unknown road  
> To embrace my fate  
> Though that road may wander  
> It will lead me to you  
> \- Michael Bolton, “(I can) go the distance"

Vigil’s Keep was a positively ancient, crumbling castle that wobbled precariously on the edge of a cliff above the small city of Amaranthine, in the shire known as Amaranthine, in the north-eastern part of Ferelden. Once upon a time it had been the castle of Teyrn Howe, the ruler of Amaranthine, but about a hundred years ago it had come into the hands of the templar order. No one knew quite how this had come to pass, although there were rumors. The most popular rumor involved a card game, a handsome young templar, and a donkey. How exactly the donkey fit in varied depending on who told the story, though. At the present, however, Vigil’s Keep was a gigantic stone colossus that looked like a strong breeze was going to send it toppling into the ocean with its leaky roofs and patched walls. According to popular opinion the place should have been decreed unfit for habitation at least fifty years ago, but to this day it was still filled to the rafters with templars, recruits, random soldiers and a suspicious amount of merchants. The hustle and bustle of the place was constant, and the only times it was silent was when something shady was going on. Or at night. But then again, those two things usually coincide.

At the present time there was approximately fifty templar recruits in training at Vigil’s Keep, and they were all gathered in the exercise field just outside the castle. They were supposed to stand in neat lines, face the podium and be completely quiet, but the Knight Commander, serah “call me Duncan” Kinloch, had given up trying to get them into something vaguely resembling order twenty minutes ago and just watched them mill around in exasperation. They looked like ants in a molehill. No, that was unfair to the ants. Ants were usually organized, not milling about like demented chipmunks and chittering amongst themselves like squirrels fighting over an acorn, generally causing a ruckus. To provide contrast for this, there was an elven woman sitting in a high chair on the dais above the exercise field. She was exquisite in her fine silk gown and long dark hair, but the mark of tranquility on her forehead ruined it a bit. Behind her chair stood a templar in ceremonial chainmail, with a heavy broadsword strapped to his back. He looked to be in his forties, greying at the temples. To their side stood Duncan with a scroll in his hands. The woman had a name, Kallian Andras, but she was more known throughout the known world by her title; Matchmaker. It sounded a lot more romantic than it actually was, for in fact she was the only living person in the world who could see the bond between mage and templar before it had manifested. A manifested bond was visible by anyone who concentrated hard enough and had enough second sight, but only the Matchmaker was ever able to see the link between unbonded mages and their future templars.

Icthlarin Lavellan tried not to feel self-conscious about his messy red hair and bare, dirty feet as he stepped onto the dias. To be fair, this was how he looked normally; boots were something that happened to other people, and combs were just a waste of time. Why bother when he was going to be messy in a few hours anyway? And the other templar recruits were rather used to his unkempt appearance at this point. Even the Knight Commander had given up on trying to make Icthlarin look respectable within the first month. But now, when he was face to face with the blank, lifeless gaze of the Matchmaker, he felt every bit a heathen from the wilds. There was something about those wide, dark eyes that seemed to look straight into the depths of your soul, and he did not like it one bit. There was too much there he’d rather forget about. Still, he found himself caught by her eyes like a fish on a hook, unable to look away. At last she blinked, dismissing him with a quick flash of long, dark lashes. As he returned to the other recruits waiting in the courtyard, his knees felt decidedly shaky.

 

~~~~~~

 

Later in the afternoon, Duncan put up a large sheet of parchment on the notice board by the exercise field. It listed the templars that were considered ready for their positions at the circles, and therefore every single recruit in the Keep seemed to be crowding around it like merchants around a wealthy but not particularly intelligent nor subtle noble. Icthlarin swiftly realised the futility of trying to get close enough to read; he was the only elf currently training at Vigil’s Keep and stood almost a foot shorter than the others. Instead, he skulked at the edge of the crowd, hoping the excitement would die down soon so that he may have a shot at checking if he himself was considered ready yet. Just as he was starting to feel truly dejected, he spotted his hero in disguise; striding across the exercise field like a scythe through a wheat field was Cernunnos Ashaad. Ashaad was a positively gigantic qunari, about twice as tall as Icthlarin and three of him widthwise.

“Hey, big guy” Icthlarin said as he smiled in his most charming way, “Would you mind checking if I’m on the list?” Ashaad nodded once, craned his huge horned head slightly and squinted.

“You are” he rumbled with a voice that sounded like distant thunder. “Skyhold. To be bonded.” Icthlarin paled and felt a bit faint.

“Bonded? _Me?_ ” He winced. “Gods and Goddesses help us all” he muttered. “Poor sod.” The last bit was referring to the mage that was going to be stuck with him. Just then, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he nearly toppled over from shock.

“Ah, there you are, Lavellan” The Knight-Commander’s voice cut through the air like a fine blade. “Come see me in my office, hm? We need to talk.”  
“Y-yes sir.” Icthlarin squeaked.

“And no hiding in the woods” Duncan admonished, but the look on his handsome, weathered face was one of fond amusement. “I don’t have time to track you down today.”

“No, sir” Icthlarin hung his head. Damn, there went his usual way of dealing with this sort of thing. He stood there for a few moments, ignoring the cacophony going on around him as every single templar recruit in the field seemed to talk all at once, not listening to any of the others. Then he sighed deeply and, head still low, trudged off to meet his Knight-Commander. He looked like a man walking to his execution.

 

~~~~~~

 

Knight Commander Duncan Kinloch of Vigil’s Keep looked at the dainty red-haired elf with two wicked looking daggers strapped to his back with a thoughtful air. He had to admit, even if only to himself, that the matchmaker’s choice had surprised him this time. Lavellan wasn’t what he would describe as stable, and if he asked around the Keep most of them would probably be in complete agreement. Lavellan was flighty, thoughtless, flirty, and an expert at getting himself in trouble. But he was also fiercely loyal to the select few he called friends. The maker worked in mysterious ways, indeed. He cleared his throat and started speaking.

“You have been assigned to a mage on Skyhold. I’m sure you know a little about the kind of trials you will face there.” The statement was met with a blank stare. He sighed deeply.

“Knight Commander Pentaghast occasionally employs a band of mercenaries to escort traders up the mountain, and lucky for you I managed to get in touch with them. You will join the next caravan to Skyhold, since there is safety in numbers upon this dangerous path. On your arrival, you will report to the Knight Commander. She will be responsible for your bonding to one of the most powerful mages in the keep.” He drew a deep breath. “You will leave in the morning, I suggest you prepare accordingly and say your goodbyes.” Icthlarin nodded obediently.

“Well, off you go, then.” Duncan said dismissively and turned his back. Icthlarin closed the door behind him softly, with a quiet click.

“Well” Icthlarin tried to look at the positive side of things even though his knees felt like water and his stomach was rolling, “As long as he’s handsome.”

He flashed his trademark flirty grin at noone in particular, trying his best to ignore the queasy feeling of impending doom.

 

~~~~~~

 

The mercenaries the Knight Commander had talked into taking Icthlarin along turned out to be a rag-tag band called ‘the Chargers’, led by a tall hulk of a Qunari that answered to ‘Iron Bull’. His second in command was a handsome tevene called Krem that immediately had Icthlarin batting his lashes and shimmying his hips like a courtesan at a fancy brothel. The rest were the most eclectic mix of people he had ever seen, and that was saying something. And then there were the traders… but the lesser said about them, the better.

The little group set off for the long journey to Skyhold one early morning in late autumn, when the sun shone brightly on trees turning yellow and there was a hint in the air of heavy snowfall. The chargers proved to be good company, as quick with a snarky quip as with their weapons. The Bull ran his crew with an iron fist (pardon the pun), but it was most definitely covered with a silken glove. It was clear that the chargers were not only fiercely loyal, but they honestly liked their leader. Icthlarin liked the chargers; he had been shot down firmly by Krem the first night he tried to crawl into the human’s tent, but it had been done kindly and they had since become friends, jesting and laughing about the differences between their cultures. He spent most of the time flirting with everyone, and to the company’s amusement Bull flirted nearly as much with the handsome elf.

These antics made the trek almost enjoyable, and the days passed as swiftly as autumn faded into winter. After near two weeks walk, Bull stopped at the rim of a large hill and gestured towards the snow-clad mountains in the distance.

“There” he said, pointing with a thick finger. “there she is. On top of the mountain. Skyhold, the Mage Keep. Strongest magic users in Thedas up there.”

“Which one?” Icthlarin panted as he climbed the steep hill. “All I see is a mountain chain.” Bull laughed, a deep rumbling noise.

“The tallest one, where else? The Foothold of Heaven. And on the top lies ancient Skyhold.”

Someone groaned behind him.

“I need a drink.”

Krem rolled his eyes.

“You always need a drink. Now shift it, we’ve got a ways to go yet and the day is nearly over.”

That seemed to end the conversation and the wanderers started moving again.

 

~~~~~~

 

When the weary travellers finally arrived at the Foothold of Heaven, the wind was howling around the mountain in a way that sounded like a few dozen ravenous wolves. At the foot of a steep staircase that appeared to have been carved into the mountainside itself stood a weathered templar in ceremonial chainmail, leaning on a staff.

“Afternoon” he grumbled in a voice nearly as gruff as his face.

“Nice to meet you” Icthlarin said sarcastically, jumping from foot to foot and cursing his lack of boots. To his defence, he had never been so far up north before, so that he was freezing was no surprise to anyone but himself, really. The templar just looked at them blankly, then made a vague gesture to the steep incline leading up the mountain.

“Better hurry up” he said, “if we want to reach the keep before dark. You do not want to camp on the mountain, and the path is nearly impossible to climb at night. Well, unless your name is Cole.”

That said, the greying man turned and started walking, ignoring any questions the templars might have. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and followed, trying to see where they trod through the snow. The sun was already moving towards the horizon, and it looked to be a long trek.

 

~~~~~~

 

Up in the keep, inside the thick walls, the snow wasn't falling at all. This would probably surprise the unwary traveller, but if you knew that the keep was stuffed to the rafters with the most powerful mages in Thedas, it would be no surprise at all. At first glance the courtyard was a rather peaceful place, with the usual sort of people milling about doing the usual duties. There was, however, one exception. A tall, dark-skinned woman in what could loosely be described as white robes strode across the courtyard in her high-heeled elegant boots, a grim set to her full mouth.

“Who is the _idiot_ who set Dorian off today?” She demanded of the harried looking servant who tried desperately to keep up with her.

“Not Dorian, First Enchanter, he's up on the battlements. Someone stole Wren's shoes!” First Enchanter Vivienne pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing deeply. Honestly, that prank was older than the Black City. It was days like these she regretted taking on the mantle of First Enchanter. She started walking towards the keep.

“Get Cassandra and Leliana. Tell them to bring rope.” She ordered the servant.

“Yes First Enchanter.”

 

~~~~~~

 

Cassandra Pentaghast, Knight Commander of Skyhold and bonded templar to First Enchanter Vivienne, put her hands on her hips and scowled at nothing in particular. She stood in the middle of Skyhold library, which was famed for its historical tomes, and looked up at the ceiling looming far, far above her head. Well, to be more specific, she was looking more at the mage pinned to it. Said mage was a human in his mid twenties, with short dark hair that tended to curl and impish brown eyes. Wren Trevelyan, the bane of her existence.

Wren was a young mage who so far had not showed any particular powers, apart from the one that had got him sent to Skyhold in the first place. Levitation. Well, to be more precise, weightlessness. That was why his boots were so important - and it was a never ending source of amusement amongst the younger apprentices and templars to steal them. Without his leaden boots, Wren floated straight up until something stopped him or he managed to grab hold to something. The last time he had lost his boots outside, it had taken half the keep all day to get him down from the highest tower spire. It had rained too. This time the library ceiling had stopped him, which was lucky. The issue was that they had no direct way to get him down. Therefore Cassandra stood on the library floor, waiting for Leliana to show up with her bow and arrows.

Vivienne was standing on the top floor in the library, which really was Leliana's domain rather than a part of the library, attempting to calm the rather upset mage. She could clearly be heard promising retribution and bloody murder when she got her hands on whoever had stolen his boots this time. Wren was a merry man, always ready with a quip or joke or song, but even he had his limits and the boot thefts had been increasing lately. It made him feel as if he was being picked on, maybe even targeted. It wasn't a nice feeling. Cassandra said nothing, but she too was plotting retribution and bloody murder.

Where the _hell_ was Leliana!?

  
~~~~~~

 


	2. He who rules the winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for you all my life,  
> waiting for redemption,  
> I've been waiting day and night,  
> I burn for you.   
> \- Johnny Clegg & Savuka - Dela
> 
>  

 

Icthlarin stood in what he assumed to be the grand square, what with all the people milling around, waiting for someone to point him in the direction of the guard captain. He wrapped his arms around himself, rubbed his chilly skin and tried desperately to stop his teeth from chattering. He was cold down to the bone and really just wanted to curl up in front of a big fire like a cranky cat and not move for about a week, but he felt reasonably confident that such a thing was definitely not in the cards. Instead, he started making small jumps from foot to foot in order to get his blood pumping through his cold veins, ignoring Bull’s snickers. After a few moments of this, he spotted a tall thin human woman with close-cropped hair, dressed in traditional templar platemail. She was moving towards him with the long, confident strides of the experienced soldier and as she came closer Icthlarin could see that she wore knee-high leather boots inscribed with runes and insignias. He knew some of them, but the majority were new. He wondered what they meant, but figured it wasn’t relevant at this point in time. He could also see that she wore a wide, red sash crowned with a heavy leather belt with a gold buckle around her waist and from her slim shoulders hung a heavy red cape, lined with pale fur Icthlarin could not identify. He assumed that this was the Knight Commander herself, and this assumption was confirmed when she fixed him with her cool blue eyes and addressed him.

“I am Knight Commander Cassandra Pentaghast. Welcome.” her voice was the kind of voice that sounded like it was trained to bark orders at soldier both bigger and stronger than her. It was a voice you listened to, a voice that should she ask you to jump you'd be in the air before you remembered to ask how high. The look she gave him was appraising, and icthlarin found himself shivering more under her cool blue gaze than he did on the journey. He had a distinct impression that he had failed his first - and possibly only - chance to impress her.

“You are Icthlarin Lavellan, intended for Dorian,” she went on, pointedly ignoring his still chattering teeth. Icthlarin wondered if she had ever asked a question in her life.

“So I would ask that you please fetch him from the top of the western tower and meet me and the First Enchanter in the Grand Hall.” she had said this mostly in one breath, but now she paused to get some fresh air. Giving him one last appraising look, she turned on her heel and stalked towards the keep, adding over her shoulder: You will have to excuse me, I have an emergency that requires my attention in the library.”

The Iron Bull along with his chargers and one dainty elf were left in the courtyard.

“Alright” Bull said, “we were hired to escort a templar whelp to Skyhold, and we have done that. Why don’t you lot go to the inn and get sloshed while I go get paid.” Krem and the others nodded; the journey had been long, annoying and difficult and some mead and a warm bed sounded marvellous. They went on their way, bickering amongst themselves as was their way. Bull continued on up to the keep, curious about the emergency that had the Knight Commander in such a state.

Icthlarin nodded once, gave the Bull one last flirty leer and went in another direction, toward the tower on the west side. Apparently, he would find his mage at the top.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding the library proved easy; Bull only needed to follow the upset voices and yelling. Several mages, templars and random other people dressed in normal clothes were milling around on the floor, all of them anxiously looking up towards the ceiling. Bull made his way to the center of the room and did the same, curious as to what they were looking at. The first thing he noted was the woman with the bow, standing on the top floor aiming at the roof. She was tall and slim, dressed in unmarked chainmail and a heavy purple cloak and hood, matching gloves and the sort of boots you can run a race in two-feet snow in without worrying about getting your socks wet. A few strands of red hair had fallen loose from whatever way she wore her hair and now fell around her slim face. Her hands were covered in heavy gloves, but they seemed to have no problems holding the bowstring taut and aiming straight for the mage. When Bull twisted his head just a little, he saw that what he had first assumed to be an arrow was in fact a grapple hook, attached to a long rope.

“You ready, Wren?” The woman with the bow called.

“Yes, just get me down from here!” Bull turned his once more head and saw the speaker; a very nice looking human male,looking rather exasperated. He had long dark hair and a pair of black trousers that looked very snug indeed, hugging his body in all the right places. He also wore a loose flowing robe of the kind that was very modern at the present. It sat snugly over his chest and arms, the front reminding you of a vest that had been sown into a jacket with a white shirt peeking out at the top, but from the waist down it billowed and fell like an open coat. Well, it would have if it wasn’t as pinned to the ceiling as the rest of him. Bull frowned: it wasn’t the first time this had happened, and he was getting really tired of whoever the hell it was making fun of Wren. It wasn’t funny at all anymore. It might be a rather impressive display of advanced magic - there were no ropes or manacles, no lines of power, just this man pressed to the stone - but still. Whoever it was that kept doing this needed to be taught a lesson. Preferably, at the pointed end of Bull’s sword. Then a most curious thing happened; their eyes met. Brown looked into blue. And with a shocked little cry, the man - Wren - was loosened by his invisible bonds and plummeted straight towards Bull.

 

* * *

 

Dorian stood on the top of the highest climbable tower in Skyhold and threw everything he had at the wind, whipping it up into howling fury. He had received another letter from his father that day, wanting to meet and “talk”. Damn the man, there was nothing to talk about! He had made his point of view painfully clear and Dorian wanted nothing more to do with any of them anymore. Why did the old bastard continue to send letters? And why, _why_ , did he still read them? He should throw them in the fire unopened, that's what he should do. He opened his mouth and screamed out all his anger and the pain he wouldn't let anyone in the keep see, and was rewarded by a freezing gust of wind throwing itself down from the mountaintops. He wanted to send his winds howling all the way to Tevinter, to rip apart the house and gardens of what had once been his home. But even he could not reach that far, so he satisfied himself with making the snow swirl around the keep with increasing speed, feeling the exhaustion creep into his body. Soon, he would be too burned out to keep going, and then the calm would return to the mountain. But not quite yet.

“Having fun?” The voice was unexpected and shocked Dorian so much he lost control of the wind, which immediately gleefully threw itself across the mountain range, out of his reach. The lesser winds were still blowing around the castle, but with much less intensity compared to mere minutes before, when his will had controlled it. He turned around and saw a tiny figure standing by the trapdoor. He let his eyes roam over a bright orange hat squeezed down over the head, a coat that seemed at least two sizes too large, black leggings and a pair of slender bare feet with a definite blue tinge to them. The sight of those feet were alarmingly endearing. He forced his eyes away from strong, powerful legs and looked at the face. The person in front of him was grinning like a loon, and Dorian could feel his lips twitch in response. He looked ridiculous, this elf who had dared to climb the tower when even the Knight Commander waited on the ground until Dorian had worn himself out.

“Oh yes” he replied drolly, “the best entertainment in the keep.”

“Well” the elf said, still smirking, “Lucky that I'm the entertaining sort.” His green eyes were twinkling with barely suppressed mirth. “I'm looking for Dorian.”

“I am Dorian.” He was probably new, and was bringing some sort of message.

“Oh good, I was hoping you'd be handsome.” Wait, that did not make sense.

“Oh, and why were you hoping for me to be handsome?” The elf twinkled at him again.

“No particular reason. My name is Icthlarin Lavellan. I came up here because your First Enchanter is pissed at you not being in the courtyard to greet me so that she can get on with our bonding.” The man turned and walked back towards to backdoor. “Coming?” he asked cheekily. Dorian twitched with desire to chuck him over the edge of the wall and see if he bounced, but settled for knocking the ridiculous hat off his head and let it sail away on the wind. If for no other reason than that it clashed horribly with Icthlarin’s red hair. They stood quietly for a moment, watching it disappear into the snow.

“I'll leave it to you to explain to Krem why I owe him a new hat.” Icthlarin said eventually. Before Dorian could think of a snarky reply (and since when had he been needing to think of a witty comeback?), the blasted elf had already disappeared back down the ladder. He left Dorian no choice but to follow him.


	3. words I never thought I'd say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet, now I'm standing here  
> My heart's so full, I can't explain  
> Seeking faith and speaking words  
> I never thought I'd say  
> \- Mariah Carey, "When You Believe"

 

Wren landed softly, much to his surprise. There was a muffled protest from whatever he was lying on, and as soon as he realised he scrambled back, stuttering and apologising. The moment they stopped touching Wren could feel the sense of lightness that he had learnt to dread and he slowly started floating back towards the ceiling.

“Hold on to him for maker’s sake!” The redheaded woman  with the bow hollered, and Wren instinctively gripped Bull’s hand. Immediately the sense of floating disappeared and he found himself standing safely on the floor. The feeling of cold stone against his bare feet was one of the finest feelings he had felt in his whole life. It was so rare for him to be able to feel stone under his bare feet that he cherished the feel that so many others took for granted. The fact that a certain sexy qunari had an arm around him was pretty nice, too. He leered up at the big and buff hunk and the smirk on his thin lips pretty much made Wren want to get naked right then and there. He pressed a little closer, letting his legs spread over one of Bull’s thighs. The heat of his body was enough to make Wren very interested indeed.

“Hey handsome” Wren crooned, “what’s a man like you doing in this place?” It was a really cheesy pick-up line, but it had worked before…

“Lookin’ for a guy like you” Bull rumbled, clearly amused, but with more than a hint of arousal in his voice. “This how you usually pick up guys?”

“No, usually I buy them drinks and sit on their lap.” Wren snarked back, grinding his hips into Bull’s thigh, leaving no doubt about his own growing arousal. 

“Sounds good, let’s go to the inn.” Wren grinned. This was going rather well, he thought.

“Or we can skip the drinks and I can show you my quarters right away. I have thick walls and a sturdy bed.” Unfortunately, at this point Cassandra stepped in.

“Boys, please. First, we need to locate your boots, Wren. Then you can flirt to your hearts content.” That brought Wren back to reality like a cold bucket of water. 

“Right” he said grimly. “My boots.” he pulled away with great reluctance, straightened his dishevelled robe, and then promptly paled as he felt the floor once again disappear from beneath his naked feet.  Bull pulled him hard against him in a way that was exhilaratingly familiar, both grounding and electrifying. The voice purring in his ear was rather nice, too.

“Later, handsome. We’ll check how sturdy that bed is.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, Iron Bull.” The amusement in the qunari’s eyes gave way to an intensity that made him tremble. 

“You’d better.” 

 

~~~~~~

 

Iron Bull was just about to get reacquainted with his favorite mage when a tall, dark-haired human with dusky skin and the kind of hairstyle an antivan would refer to as “dreadlocks” entered the hall dragging a tiny blond elf female in brightly colored clothes behind him.

“Delivery to the Knight Commander and First Enchanter of one unrepentant thief. Please sign on the dotted line.”

“You’re as hilarious as always, Shamus.” Cassandra sighed and shook her head. The man laughed.

“I know. Keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?” He turned to the elf that was trying to squirm loose and gave her a good shake.

“Now, you have something to say to dear Messere Trevelyan, don’t you?” The female glared furiously at him.

“Let me go, dog-breath!”

“Oh please, if you’re going to insult me at least be a little creative. Now say sorry like a good girl and tell Wren what you did with his boots.” The elf stared down at her feet and muttered something unintelligible. Shamus shook her again, still grinning unrepentantly. “Very good, Sera, now a bit louder so we can actually hear you.” 

“I said I’m sorry, alright! Now let me go!”

“Let me think about it. Not a chance. Where are the boots?”

“I don’t know, okay! I hid them in the stables but they weren’t there anymore!” Cassandra groaned deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Leliana-” she began.

“Already sent someone.” The redheaded woman replied as she descended the stairs. Sera, noticing that Shamus was distracted by eyeing the qunari, slipped from his grasp and vanished so quickly no one had time to see where she went. Shamus didn’t seem to care much, instead he strolled over and held out a rough hand.

“Shamus Cousland, bane of the Knight Commander’s existence.” He grinned like a demented cat.

“Iron Bull. Pleasure.” Shamus grin turned into a leer.

“Oh, I’m sure.” He let his eyes rove over the Bull’s body. “But I like my balls where they are, so I’ll have to take your word for it. I’m sure Wren will be happy to tell me all about it later.” Still grinning unrepentantly, he saluted Cassandra and vanished out the door. 

Cassandra turned to Bull.

“That was my new second in command. You wouldn’t believe it when you see him, but he is my best solder. If he just learned to take something seriously once in awhile he just might get to be named my successor.” 

“Not going to happen” Wren and Leliana chorused. 

“I know.” Cassandra sighed. “Anyways. You expect payment, I suppose. Josephine will take care of that; you will find her in her office. Leliana will show you. I’m sorry, but I have a bonding to supervise as soon as I’ve tracked down the First Enchanter.”

“No need, Cassandra dear” a tall, elegant dark skinned woman in a white robe said as she glided into the hall as if walking on air. Bull shrugged. This was none of his business. Besides he wanted to get his money, so he left to locate this Josephine woman. Wren tagged along, slightly dazed and very excited, a death grip on Bull’s hand.

 

~~~~~~

 

While the Bull took the opportunity to get his hands all over Wren while “looking for Josephine”, Icthlarin and Dorian walked in silence on their way to the Great Hall where they would be bonded. Icthlarin kept peeking at the tall, handsome human, and Gods and Goddesses, wasn’t he a vision to behold! Tall, broad shoulders, dusky skin, dark eyes, an elegant moustache and a finely cut robe. He was… well, sex on legs, if you wanted a short and precise description. Icthlarin found himself wanting to get the bonding - and celebratory dinner - over with as soon as possible so he could find out what lay beneath the robe. 

 

Cassandra looked at the odd pair standing before her waiting to be bonded, then turned to her own Mage. Vivienne was placing the required ribbons and chains on a small table, double checking that she had everything. Then she picked up a white ribbon and turned to give Cassandra a brief nod. They were ready. 

“Dorian Pavus, Icthlarin Lavellan, step forward and face each other.” Vivienne ordered, her voice ringing clear and strong through the hall. Dorian sauntered forward like he owned the hall, as he always did. Icthlarin slipped like a shadow across the water, all lines and blurs. Vivienne waited until they stood in front of her by the table, then she cleared her throat and spoke words that had been written down centuries before.

“The union of mage and templar is a bond that is as strong as time itself, it is an anchor and a connection deeper than any of you have ever known and will ever know. You are two halves of one whole." 

She laid Icthlarin’s left hand in Dorian’s right one. As if on instinct, they immediately laced their fingers together.

"White is for spirit, and so I bond your spirits together.” Vivienne said as she tied their hands together with a white ribbon. “This is so that you, Dorian, will never walk the fade alone. Look at the man in front of you and see a shield to protect you, a weapon to defend you and an embrace to shelter you. See your templar. Do you accept him?"

"I do." Dorian said, voice sounding more bored than anything else.

Vivienne placed Icthlarin’s right hand in Dorian’s left, then tied them together with a red ribbon. 

"Red is for the body.” She said. ”Icthlarin, look at Dorian and see a light in the darkness, a companion who will walk beside you through life, and an embrace to comfort you. He is your mage. Do you accept him?" 

Icthlarin’s smouldering green eyes raked over the mage’s form with blatant appreciation.

"I do.” he purred.

Cassandra stepped forward and tied a blue ribbon over the white one.

"Blue is for faith. Dorian, will you be the light to brighten Icthlarin's life, his constant companion, and a comfort in his time of need?"

"I will."

Cassandra tied a green ribbon over the red one..

"Green is for protection. Icthlarin, will you be the shield that guards Dorian from the demons that haunt him? The weapon that will do battle with that which wishes him harm, and the embrace in which he may rest and draw strength?"

"I will." 

Vivienne finished the bonding by tying a thin gold chain over and around their bound hands as Cassandra spoke:

"This chain is the promises you have just made. It is knowledge, understanding and acceptance. It is the bond that unites you as one and can only be broken in the event of death.” Vivienne tied the ends of the chain together in a knot so intricate it was impossible to see where it ended. Then both she and Cassandra stepped back, waiting. 

They did not have to wait long before a bright light started to glow between the two men. It grew stronger and stronger, bright and clear like the sun, until all present had to avert their eyes. When it finally dispersed, three intertwined swirls were carved onto the back of Icthlarin’s right hand. On Dorian’s left hand, a stylized eye of the kind often seen on old elven murals and wall carvings seemed to glow faintly before it faded and darkened to black. 

Vivienne took another deep breath and spoke up again.

"From this moment forth you are one. Where the mage weakens and doubts, the templar stands strong. When the templar falters, the mage steps with confidence. So you complete each other. Dorian, repeat this last promise:" 

"You are a templar. I am your mage." Dorian echoed, not sounding quite so bored any longer. Cassandra gave him a pleased look, then turned to Icthlarin.

"Icthlarin, repeat this promise to Dorian." 

"You are a mage. I am your templar." 

"It is done.” Cassandra said, “Please step aside." 

 

~~~~~~

 

That night, in the banquet hall, Dorian tried his best not to let on how strange it felt to have a templar sitting next to him at the table. He felt rather confident that his consternation did not show. He looked thoughtfully down into his goblet of wine and tried his best to ignore the bond thrumming between him and the petite elf sitting by his side. What exactly was on his plate he was unsure of, but it was some sort of meat in a dark brown sauce that did not look very appetizing. Surely that must be why he had no appetite; it could not be the slim hand resting on his thigh, slender fingers caressing slowly. He glanced at his templar from out of the corner of his eye, and found the man eating his dinner without so much as a hint of what he was really doing to his mage. In fact, he was laughing at something another templar had just said, a twinkle in his eye that made something within Dorian flutter and seethe at the same time; flutter with warmth, seethe that it wasn’t directed at him. Vashante kaffas, this was  _ his  _ templar! He was about to say something when Icthlarin’s hand slid higher, his explorations boldening, and Dorian found himself biting his lower lip to keep from moaning. He could not, however, stop a small gasp from escaping.

“You okay?” Wren, who sat on his other side, asked in concern.

“Fine” Dorian choked out and felt his cheeks redden. He could feel his body responding, the hunger thrumming from both his body and his mind. The bond sang in his head, a song of loving and passion. It was the former that was troubling him. He could deal with passion; indeed, he had plenty of experience in that department. But loving? He had never really had a lover; sure, there had been plenty of pleasure, but never more than that. He had learned not to expect more than that. His hand trembled as he picked up his goblet once more, but forgot to drink as the candlelight flickered over the symbol glowing a dull red on the back of his hand. The eye seemed to be watching him, but even though he felt as if it should have made him uncomfortable it did not. Instead, it was comforting which only served to make him feel even more unnerved. He jolted in surprise when a wave of comfort and encouragement hit him, enfolding him like a warm blanket. It took a moment to realise where it had come from; his templar, who was now watching him with worried eyes. He flashed a quick smile.

“I’m fine” He said, pleased that he managed to keep his voice reasonably steady, “Just… looking forward to tonight.” Icthlarin flashed him a smug little smirk that he immediately wanted to kiss off, and his hand boldly worked higher. It found Dorian’s groin, stroking and pressing his growing hardness through the fabric of his robes. Dorian gasped, instinctively parting his thighs.

“Templar” he sighed before he was even aware that he had spoken. 

“Mage” Icthlarin purred in response as he found the drawstring holding Dorian’s trousers closed and loosened it just enough to slip his hand inside.  _ Vashante kaffas,  _ how much longer before he could retire to his rooms!? Staring blindly down into his goblet, Dorian failed to see the smug, victorious look in Icthlarin’s face as he looked at Wren. Wren stared back, eyes narrowing with an unspoken challenge. 

 

~~~~~~


	4. a single look, and then I knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally they get it on. Yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M: A heart full of love [E: He was never mine to lose]  
> C: A heart full of you [E: Why regret what could not be?]  
> M: A single look and then I knew.  
> C: I knew it too. [E: These are words he'll never say, not to me...]  
> M: From today... [E: Not to me...Not...for me]  
> C: Every day
> 
> Marius - Cosette - Eponine:  
> “A Heart Full of Love” (Les Miserables)

Dorian was in the habit of ending every day with a nice, long bath in his on-suite (Vivienne had insisted, on her elevation to First Enchanter, that all her mages have on-suite baths), and this night was no exception. His back ached after several hours hunched over books in the library, and the rest of his body was crying out from exhaustion after having released his wrath in the wind earlier. He leaned back in the tub, feeling pleasantly tipsy from the wine at the banquet, and thought of the man in his bedroom. To be honest, the elf was obscenely beautiful with his glossy red hair, light green eyes and the tattoos curling gracefully over his high forehead and elegant cheekbones. He was slim and slender, just the right size to be engulfed in Dorian’s arms and rest his head against his shoulder. It was a bit confusing, to be fair: he had expected a big, burly warrior with a broadsword. What he got was a petite rogue who looked like he should be the star attraction of the finest brothel in Val Royeaux. Fate had a weird sense of humor, Dorian thought as he chose a soft soap that smelled of lavender, and generously lathered his stiff body. He contemplated washing his hair, but realised his arms were too sore to raise over his head long enough to do it properly. It would have to wait until the morning. He leaned back in the tub and watched the bubbles dissipate into the warm water, letting his thoughts wander to the exquisite creature waiting for him just beyond the door. 

 

When Dorian finally emerged from the bathroom, having dried himself off and wrapped a soft, luxurious towel around his waist, he found himself accosted by above mentioned stunning redhead, as nude as the day he was born. If Icthlarin had been lovely with his clothes on, nude he was exquisite. His skin had a healthy glow from exposure to the sun, his auburn hair fell like red silk past his narrow shoulders to just reach his small nipples, his stomach was flat and without an ounce of fat. In fact he was rather on the skinny side, and Dorian found himself with the completely unfamiliar impulse to make sure he ate properly. The flat stomach tapered down to narrow hips and curls of soft red hair surrounding the prettiest cock he had ever seen, even though it was soft. The legs seemed to go on forever, ending in the daintiest feet Dorian had ever laid eyes on. He made Dorian feel clumsy with his strong build and broad shoulders.

“Finally” the elf said, sounding breathless. “You took  _ forever _ in there!” He swiftly divested Dorian off his towel before he had time to protest, clever fingers stroking his cock to full hardness.

“Sorry, I’ve wanted to taste you all night. I can’t wait any longer.” Dorian opened his mouth to say something but it came out as only a strangled moan as Icthlarin fell to his knees and took his cock in his mouth, sucking eagerly, running his hands down Dorian’s thighs.

“Maker!” He groaned, thrusting his hips forward into that gloriously hot mouth. To see this gorgeous youth kneeling in front of him was probably one of the most erotic sights he had ever seen. The elf just moaned in passion and sucked harder, bobbing his head, pulling back so he could properly worship the leaking head. He swirled his tongue around it, licking at it like a kitten with a bowl of milk, pressing the tip of his tongue into the slit briefly before engulfing it in his ravenous mouth again. Under his relentless onslaught, it did not take long before Dorian cried out and came hard, burying his fingers in his lover’s hair.

 

Before he had time to catch his breath, Icthlarin jumped back to his feet and kissed him in a way that made him feel light-headed. The elf tasted of sweet wine and salty semen, and Dorian found the taste of himself on Icthlarin’s talented tongue to be an aphrodisiac of the highest degree. He stroked his hands down his lover’s nude body, grabbing fistfuls of his buttocks, kneading them in his hands as he devoured a lush mouth. Icthlarin’s hands were roaming his torso, moaning into his mouth. They stumbled, still frantically kissing, in the general vicinity of the bed, and Icthlarin fell backwards as it hit the back of his knees. Dorian followed him down, still feasting on his mouth, unwilling to let go even to breathe. They kissed passionately for several minutes, just grinding against each other, hands roaming, completely lost in the act of just kissing. Dorian’s body framed Icthlarin’s, knees pressing into the mattress on each side of slender hips, arms resting on each side of the pretty head. When at last the need for air became too great, Dorian tore his mouth away with a breathless moan and took in the sight of his new lover lying sprawled beneath him. Icthlarin scooted up in the bed so that his head was resting on the pillow. At the same time he opened his thighs, baring himself completely to Dorian’s hungry gaze. Dorian responded by kissing his way down his delectable body,tormenting the nipples until they peaked and letting his tongue run down the thin line of fine hairs growing from the bellybutton down to the groin. Then he was face to face with Icthlarin’s cock. He paused to get a good look. The elf was not overly large, about four inches, but the skin here was a golden as the rest of him. He was uncut, the foreskin slightly darker than the rest. He was a sight that simply could not be resisted. So, Dorian did not resist. Instead, he took that pretty cock into his mouth and set about giving the best blow job he had ever given anyone, taking both pride and pleasure in the delirious cries from the man writhing under him. 

 

Icthlarin stared unblinkingly at the man kneeling between his spread legs. He was gorgeous, all of Icthlarin’s most private fantasies rolled up into one man. Dark eyes that you could drown in, dark hair perfect for pulling at the height of passion. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong legs, muscular arms. Dark skin like doeskin leather. He wanted to lick that skin all over and see if it tasted and felt like leather too, or if it was soft as silk, sweet as honey. Icthlarin twisted his fingers so hard in the sheets his knuckles hurt, but he wasn’t really aware of that; all he was conscious of was the hot, wicked, glorious mouth working his throbbing member with a skill that was driving him wild. Dorian’s mouth was like a… like a leech, in the way it sucked voraciously, bobbing up and down, lightly raking his teeth up the sensitive vein on the underside. Then back down, to the root, swallowing around Icthlarin’s cock, making the elf cry out in ecstasy. Then pull away, so that only the tip rested in that hot mouth, tongue swirling over the sensitive head, one hand working the rest of it. Then back down, burying his nose in his pubic hair. Each time he sucked Icthlarin down to the root his perfectly groomed moustache lightly tickled the elf’s heaving body, and much to his surprise Icthlarin found that to be one of the most intense turn-ons he had ever experienced. He was riding a wave of wild ecstasy, suspended between heaven and earth, on the verge of falling into an abyss, but not yet. He was so close, so desperately close, but not quite… he clawed at the mattress, sobbing breathlessly, begging without words for  _ more _ . But it seemed as though Dorian knew what he wanted anyways, pulling back again until the tip just barely rested in his mouth, wrapped his hand around the base of Icthlarin’s cock. He sucked so hard his cheeks hollowed and pulled once, twice, and Icthlarin was gone. He came with a long, drawn-out cry of pleasure, His vision whiting out as his semen shot out and down Dorian’s throat. 

 

That was when it happened. It was as if the flood gates gave way and Icthlarin’s mind lay way open to Dorian: the last shield collapsed and their spirits found each other in the darkness, winding and wrapping together until they could not tell where one ended and one began, the bond snapping into place between them, marking them as truly templar and mage, two halves coming together to form one whole. Dorian lay down on top of Icthlarin so that every part of their bodies pressed against each other, losing himself in green, green eyes. He gazed into Icthlarin’s soul, heard his every thought, and knew it was the same in reverse. And they kissed, joining their mouths together, but the pleasure that came of it was a mere whisper to the ecstatic joy of no longer being alone. Of never being alone again. 

 

~~~~~~

 

While Icthlarin and Dorian were marvelling at the bond singing between them, in the hallway outside another’s heart was shattering. 

Minaeve clamped her hand over her mouth to keep a cry of wild denial from breaking loose. It was ridiculous; she had known all along that nothing would come of it. After all, he was a mage and she was a mage. But she had still fallen hook line and sinker for the charming Dorian the first time she met him, several years ago. But knowing that she was being ridiculous did not help her aching heart at all. She stumbled backwards, wanting to be as far away from the awful truth as possible. Did not want to hear any more cries of passion, did not want to know what was happening in that chamber. What  _ he  _ was doing inside, with someone who was not her. It would never be her. Minaeve turned and fled down the hallway, completely focused on one thing and one thing only; reaching her quarters before she began to cry. 

Due to the traitorous tears insisting on falling from her eyes, she did not see where she was going and collided with someone just as she rounded the corner. That someone was a man in chainmail, his dark hair wet from the soft drizzle of rain outside.

“Minaeve?” Shamus Cousland asked concernedly, steadying the trembling woman. “Maker, what’s wrong? What has happened?” The last thing Minaeve wanted at this point in time was his compassion, so she shook her head firmly.

“It’s nothing” she choked out, “everything is just fine!” It was clear from his frown that he did not believe her, but before he had time to question her further she tore herself loose and took off down the corridor once more. It felt as if she couldn’t breathe; her chest was constricting, eyes stinging, the scream she was forcing back was clawing in her throat and demanding freedom. She stumbled through the door to her rooms and, after having shut it behind her, she finally allowed herself to cry over her dreams, which had shattered in the course of one day. 

Tonight she was going to cry, and mourn her perfect fantasy, and tomorrow she would acknowledge the futility and impossibility of it. Tomorrow she would hold her head high and go back to her work in the healing wing, not letting on that the man she had loved for five years had given himself fully to another, ripping her heart out in the process.

Minaeve wailed as she sank down on her bed, feeling small and helpless and wanting for nothing more than Dorian to hold her, comfort her, tell her it would be alright. But he wasn’t there. He was with his templar, lying with his templar, loving his templar. Not her, never her. He would never be hers.

The knock on the door took her by surprise, but her healer’s instinct won over her need for solitude and she went to answer it. She tried to rub the tears away but each time she did more fell, so it was still weeping that she opened the door and stared in confusion at the person on the other side.

“You” she said in a bewildered tone. “What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?” 

Minaeve hesitated, wanting nothing more than to be left in peace.

“Very well. Come in.” As she closed the door behind her guest, her tears kept her from seeing a gloved hand sliding into a pocket and withdrawing a thin, long rope. 


	5. Chapter 5

 

_ The darkness can be  _ _   
_ _ such a lonely place on your own _ _   
_ _ I'll be your compass,  _ _   
_ _ so you'll never feel alone _ _   
_ __ \- Joey Graceffa, "Don't Wait"

  
  


Dorian wandered the library aimlessly, feeling a bit lost. It was not a feeling he was particularly fond off. Waking up next to the gorgeous redhead that was now his templar had been a new sensation. It had felt… nice. Unfamiliar. He was not inexperienced, far from it, but to wake in the embrace of a lover was not something he had done before. Back home, in Tevinter, he had learnt to take his pleasure where he could find it and then steal away in the night. Now, here he was, practically married to another man and no one as much as batted an eyelash. He could probably kiss Icthlarin in the middle of the dining hall and only receive encouragement and friendly jeering from his fellow mages! Dorian’s head spun with the newness and unfamiliarity of it all, and he leaned against a bookshelf for support as he tried to collect his confused thoughts. It didn’t really work; instead, he found himself thinking back on the previous night’s events. The elf had proven to be not only passionate, but nigh on insatiable and Dorian had found himself just as starved for touch as the templar. They had brought each other off more times than he could count, ravenous for each other’s touch, coming together in a tangle of heated flesh and roaming hands. He did not know what had been more pleasurable - to sink into Icthlarin’s body, drinking in his ecstatic cries, the elf’s legs around his waist, or how the pleasure had made his whole body sing as he pressed his face into the pillow to keep from screaming in ecstasy as Icthlarin pressed into him, covering his back with scorching kisses. Perhaps it had been when the gorgeous redhead writhed in his lap, head thrown back, fingers clutching his shoulders, riding his cock and wailing his name as his whole body shook from the force of his orgasm? Dorian had no idea. But perhaps, a tendril of a thought dared to whisper in the depth of his mind, the most pleasurable feeling of all had been… simply to fall asleep in Icthlarin’s arms… 

“Copper for your thoughts” an amused voice cut into his fantasies and Dorian startled back to reality.

“Wren” he acknowledged, rolling his eyes at his grinning friend.

“Well?” The other mage prompted. “Copper for them. Or maybe I can guess.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a hardship, I suspect.”

“Probably not. Hmm… hot sweaty sex with a red-haired elf?”

Dorian snorted.

“How could you possibly know that?” 

“Easy, you’ve got the same look on your face I expect I am wearing myself. And I’m having trouble sitting down this morning.” The cheeriness that was practically radiating from the levitator was infectious, and Dorian found himself grinning back, most likely looking like a complete goof.

“Well,” he drawled, “I think the most accurate description would be ‘insatiable’.”

Wren sniggered.

“Oh, yeah? You, or him?”

“Both, actually.” Wren laughed at that, shaking his head so that his dark locks went flying every which way. In another time, it would have given Dorian certain ideas, but now… it just made him think of red. And red made him think of the feel of Icthlarin’s hair rubbing against his inner thighs…

“Why are you still here?” Wren wondered, leaning against the bookshelf. “You look like you’re one batted eyelash away from having your wicked way with someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Then I suggest a quick jaunt down to the gardens. I’ve heard that cute red-headed elves are very accommodating to frisky humans.”

Dorian shook his head and rolled his eyes, but the proposition was very tempting.

“You know, I think I will. I need to get some… fresh air.” And he left the library, firmly ignoring the peals of laughter emanating from the man he left behind. 

 

* * *

 

A young female mage in a red robe and a blond elf woman came down the corridor, laughing at some sort of private joke. 

“That’s horrible, Sera!” The mage - whose name was Ilona - said between giggles, “what happened then?”

“Oh, you mean after the flour bag exploded?” Sera smirked, discreetly moving a little closer, breathing in the scent of her friend’s hair.

“Wait, the bag exploded?” Ilona shrieked before collapsing into slightly hysterical laughter. She had to lean against the wall for several minutes, face bright red with mirth.

“Breathe, sunshine” Sera sniggered and leaned against the wall, too.

“I wish I could have been there” the other woman gasped as she got herself under control. “Way, way better than drills with the First Enchanter!”

Sera opened her mouth to make a rather crude comment about the first enchanter and drilling, but was interrupted by a tall, handsome mage floating past them. The man in question seemed not to be aware of anything that went on around him, indeed he seemed completely out of it. He had a small smile on his face and a look in his dark eyes that could almost be called giddy. Ilona watched him go, wide-eyed.

“By the spirits!” She finally said, her voice shaky. “Was that  _ Dorian? _ ”

“Holy shit, yeah it was!” Sera exclaimed. “Wow, that templar of his must be  _ really _ good in bed!”

“Sera!” The mage shrieked as they entered the great hall. “You are  _ horrible _ !”

“Does that mean you do not want to hear the rest of it?” Sera grinned at her friend.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of  _ course _ I do!” Sera opened her mouth to respond when she saw something that made her cringe. “Can we steal something from the kitchens instead?  _ That  _ is putting me off my food.” She pointed at a passionately kissing couple further down the hall. 

“I don’t know” Ilona protested as she started giggling again, “I think it’s rather cute. I wonder if it’s true, what they say about qunaris...” Sera made a face.

“I don’t want to know.” She said grimly. Ilona elbowed her in the side.

“Not even about their women?”

“Well, of course I want to know about their women. That doesn’t mean I want to see flyboy practically fuck one of their  _ males _ in the Great Hall.”

 

* * *

 

Bull growled in pleasure as Wren’s voracious mouth feasted on his own, and had just grabbed himself a nice plump double handful when he was interrupted marking his sexy little human’s neck when a shriek of pure horror tore through the reasonably calm keep. Shortly after, a man in a tranquils yellow robe entered the great hall and asked in that impassioned voice they all had if someone could please fetch the First Enchanter. 

“Minaeve has been murdered” he informed the stunned people. Bull growled with frustration as he put Wren down on the floor. Of all the inopportune moments-

 

* * *

 

Dorian managed to locate Icthlarin in the gardens, where he sat cross-legged under a tree and cut wood into arrow shafts. His slender hands handled the sharp blade with great skill, and Dorian chose to lean against the wall and simply watch, feeling a rare pleasure deep in his belly at just looking at this man and knowing that he was his. Icthlarin’s pretty eyes were bright with concentration as he carefully, carefully shaved off the excess wood from the thin, elegant shaft before holding it up to the light for close inspection. Heat coiled deep inside Dorian as the sun shone bright on his templar’s gorgeous hair; he wanted to bury his face in that hair, stroke himself off on it, feel it between his thighs. As if he had heard Dorian’s lewd thoughts - and to be fair, he probably had - Icthlarin’s eyes slid over to meet Dorian’s. The templar slowly lowered the knife and smiled.

 

* * *

 

Vivienne carefully tapped the edge of her glass with her fork, making a sweet chime ring throughout the dining hall. The chatter slowly died out until all eyes were focused on her. Not until she felt confident that she had everyone’s attention, did she rise from her chair. She drew a deep breath, then spoke in a solemn voice:

“It is with the deepest regret I must announce that the Fennec has struck once more.” The respectful silence transformed into mute horror. Someone started crying. 

“As of this morning, the healer’s assistant Minaeve was found in her quarters. She had been strangled with a silken rope, and her heart had been cut out, as is the method of the Fennec.”

“If anyone has seen or heard anything late last night or early this morning in the vicinity of Minaeve’s rooms or anything else that might be of importance in catching her killer, please inform Leliana, Cassandra or myself immediately after dinner.” She said this with little hope, as so far the Fennec had taken four lives in her hold and they were no closer to catching him than they had been when the first victim was found. 

Cassandra looked up and added her own two silvers:

“Let us decide if something is relevant or not. Not you. Everything is of relevance now, anything you might have seen, heard or noticed. There is a killer at Skyhold and this is his fourth victim.” 

There was a low murmur as they all remembered the previous deaths; Eilith, the cook’s apprentice. Ser Tavers, one of Knight Commander Cassandra’s templars. And the first victim, Ser Roland Gilmore, one of the bravest warriors in Skyhold. Vivienne glanced over at where Shamus Cousland sat; she knew that he and Roland had been close. Shamus face was cut in stone, looking as grim and solemn as his fellow men where he sat at the soldier’s table. 

Vivienne retook her seat and adjusted her robe, looking as calm and collected as always. But on the inside, she felt both angry and frustrated. While the other deaths had been cruel and tragic, this one struck her on a personal level. Minaeve had been one of  _ hers _ . She had taken an oath to protect the mages of Skyhold from both external and internal threats, and she had failed one of them. This was unacceptable. She was going to catch that Fennec if it was the last thing she did. And when she did, she was going to  _ skin _ him. Alive. With a dull blade. 

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin had to wrack his brain to remember the woman mentioned; he had met her briefly the previous day. Or rather, he had been the unfortunate recipient of one of her rants about the rights of the tranquil and the cruelty of the rite. Having been rather preoccupied with the thought of his own imminent bonding, he had not really paid attention but was reasonably confident that he had nodded and shook his head in all the right places. He agreed completely, of course, but there was a time and place for that sort of discussion and ten minutes before his bonding was not one of those times nor places.

“Minaeve?” He asked carefully, not wanting to make any sort of statement in case he had her mixed up with someone else.

“The healer’s assistant” Dorian replied, his eyebrows pinched. “Good at her job, I understand. But Ilona” he nodded at the mage girl sitting across from them, “knows more. She works in the healing wing, too.”

“Yes,” Ilona said, her brown eyes full of sorrow. “We didn’t exactly get along, but she was a good woman and a skilled healer. I will miss her.” Icthlarin gave her his best sympathetic face, then asked another, more interesting question.

“What is this fennec?”

“The monster in this keep that so far has killed four people. He’s called the Fennec because he appears without warning and disappears without a trace. No one knows who he is.” It was a mage whose name Icthlarin didn’t know who answered, looking as grim as the others in the hall.

“No clues at all?” Icthlarin frowned.

Dorian shook his head.

“None. That’s the worst part. Someone within this keep is a murderer, someone we see every day. Maybe someone within this hall, or even at this table.” 

Ilona visibly flinched.

“Please” she begged, “do not speak thusly, Dorian. It is bad enough as it is.” The blond woman from the hall earlier - Sera, was that her name? - snarled with temper.

“I won’t let anything near you, sunshine.” she growled, and the mage girl smiled gratefully.

“I know” she murmured.  

Icthlarin turned to Dorian, a look of fierceness on his face.

“And I will protect you” he vowed, “I will never let you come to harm.”

“I know” Dorian replied, softly. He wrapped his hand around Icthlarin’s. “I know.”

Unbeknownst to them, down in the inn in the courtyard a similar conversation was taking place. Only this was a conversation without words, whispered with looks and fingers.  _ I will protect you _ , fierce dark eyes under a heavy-set brow vowed as strong, scarred fingers found slim, slender ones.  _ I know _ the human’s eyes replied as the slender fingers gripped the qunari’s. There were no words needed, not even as the conversation continued.

_ Bed? _ The slender fingers asked as they stroked the back of the qunari’s hand. A slow, languid smirk answered  _ thought you’d never ask. _

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin closed the door softly, then pushed an unresisting Dorian towards the bed. The taller man sank down on it, a lost and haunted look on his face. 

“What’s happening?” Dorian whispered, his voice low and almost monotone. “Skyhold is supposed to be a sanctuary.”

Icthlarin wound his arms around his neck and kissed his gorgeous mouth until it could not resist opening.

“I don’t know, ma enansal .” He murmured as his slim fingers found the fastenings of Dorian’s robe. He stripped him slowly, taking his time to kiss each bit of skin as it was revealed. Dorian laid back on the bed and let the templar explore to his heart’s content, finding great pleasure in being the center of such delicious attention. He felt treasured lying under his lover, like he was something rare and precious that was to be worshipped and cared for. The gentleness of the kisses and caresses both ignited his passion and made him want to cry, because he could feel the tender affection in each and every one. 

When Icthlarin extracted himself from Dorian’s embrace to let his own clothes fall to the floor, Dorian found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the golden beauty being revealed to him; he pulled the other man close, feasting on his mouth and letting his hands run all over the delectable body. Their sighs and moans echoed through the chamber like a symphony of passion. The cries increased in volume when Icthlarin, slick and loose with oil and the attention of Dorian’s fingers, carefully straddled him again, slowly sinking down on his throbbing hardness. When their bodies pressed together, signaling that they were joined as far as they possibly could, Icthlarin gave a soft, sweet little sob before he started rocking his hips, slowly at first then with increasing speed. Dorian wrapped his arms around the trembling elf, pulling him close, pushing his hips up to meet him with every thrust. Their mouths fused together, each drinking the other’s passionate cries as they writhed together, passion building between them until it was a maelstrom that swept them away, making them cling to each other as their only safe harbour as the world came apart around them. When the pleasure reached its peak Dorian threw his head back and screamed out his lover’s name in wild abandon, pushing in as far as he could, desperate to have everything his templar could possibly give him. And Icthlarin, beautiful generous Icthlarin, gave. The last wall in his mind fell away and in that moment they were one.

 

After, they laid sprawled on the rumpled bed with Icthlarin’s head resting on Dorian’s chest. 

“That was…” He panted. Icthlarin’s bright green eyes were laughing.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” Dorian pressed their mouths together, feasting on the lush sweetness that he would never get enough of. A slender hand found its way down between his legs.

“So” the elf with the laughing eyes said, “wanna see if we can top that?”

“You’re going to have to give me a few minutes.”

“Fine” Icthlarin pouted. “I’ll just help myself, then.” Dorian groaned as the templar trailed scorching kisses down his chest. Dorian groaned. The blasted elf was going to be the death of him. 

 

* * *

 

Dorian did not know it, but at approximately the same time Wren was thinking the same thing as he sobbed with pleasure, parting his thighs further and arching his back. He bit down on the pillow to keep from screaming as the qunari pressing him down hit his sweet spot for what must be the hundredth time. The bed was creaking in rhythm with their movements, headrest banging against the stone wall with a force that almost made him worry about dents. But then again, at this point he did not really care about anything so trivial as dents. The passion that burned between them burned just as hot this time as it had every time they had lain together, and Wren’s cries were past loud and into hoarse, his voice sounding as if it was about to give out on him. Every thrust of Bull’s cock deep inside had him seeing stars. His hair was matted with sweat, stinging tresses hanging into his eyes, his hands clawed helplessly at the mattress as he shrieked and squealed and sobbed and moaned, voice breaking. And still, Bull rode between his thighs as if it was a race and he was intending to be the winner. It wasn’t their first coupling either; Bull had ripped his clothes off the moment the door closed behind them and from there it had been a wild, ecstatic ride that would leave him exhausted and pleasantly sore for days. Blunt teeth dug into his shoulder and Wren howled with ecstasy as his orgasm ripped through his body, making him writhe helplessly under the bigger male. 

“Please!” He did his best to scream, “Oh Maker!” Bull just groaned as he pushed all the way in one last time and emptied himself in Wren’s clenching, trembling channel.

They collapsed onto the bed in a pile of sweaty, satisfied flesh, sticky and momentarily sated.

“Had enough yet?” Bull asked, sounding like he was about to start laughing. Wren wound his arms around his neck and ground his rapidly stiffening cock against Bull’s stomach.

“You should know better by now..” He purred. The qunari growled and tipped him over onto his back, pinning his arms over his head.

“You’re a slut, mage boy.”

“So you’ve told me before.” He goaded the bigger man, grinding against him. Bull laughed breathlessly.

“Am I going to have to tie you up?” Wren whimpered with arousal. “Stupid question.” Bull laughed breathlessly as Wren pressed their mouths together in a kiss that bruised his lips. Then he - with great reluctance - pulled away from the luscious mouth that immediately whimpered in protest. The whimpers turned into a hungry groan as Bull returned, triumphant, with Wren’s belt in his hand. Wren leaned back on the bed, placing his hands over his head in submission. He looked up at Bull with hungry, defiant eyes.

“Better hurry, big guy. Or I’ll have to find someone else.” Bull growled.

“Like hell you will. I’m gonna fuck you til you beg me to stop. Then I’m gonna fuck you again. You’re mine, mage boy.” Wren laughed breathlessly, testing the bonds. The knots held good and tight. 

“Come here and prove it, big guy.” He purred.

And, maker help him, the Iron Bull proceeded to do just that. All. Night. Long.

 

* * *

 

For once in his life Dorian woke before someone came and banged on his door and hollered about breakfast. In fact, much to his own surprise, he woke shortly after dawn. Perhaps it was the still unfamiliar feeling of not being alone in bed. He lay on his side, arms wrapped around Icthlarin who slept with his back pressed to Dorian’s chest, their legs entangled. It felt odd, and at the same time like he had finally found something that he had not known he’d been missing. He had always had the feeling of missing something important, which had made him feel even more lonely and separated from his peers back in Tevinter. It was one of the reasons he had finally chosen to leave - that and other reasons he did not want to think about with a pretty thing warming his bed. He had known for many years that the closest he would ever come to marriage would be to bond with a templar, and had been nurturing vague hopes that the man in question would be reasonably easy on the eyes and not too stupid. And, well, a  _ man _ . He had been officially waiting since he was given permanent residency in the Circle of Skyhold, which was nearly six years ago. He pressed a kiss to the tousled red hair and breathed in the sweet scent of the man who laid next to him. Vanilla and wildflowers, wholly unsurprising. Dorian was starting to suspect that everything about this man was as sweet and cute as a litter of extremely fluffy puppies in a basket. And, to his horror, he found that he did not mind in the slightest. Even the fact that he was  _ drooling on Dorian’s arm _ was adorable. And this blasted little -adorable, irresistible- pest -puppy- was his. Dorian’s. He had waited for six years, and here he was. His templar. His Icthlarin.

The sun was falling in through the windows and kissing Icthlarin's face, making his eyes flicker open even though he would have loved to sleep in for once. He reluctantly opened one eye and found himself gazing into a pair of amused dark eyes belonging to the man who lay next to him. His mage. His Dorian. He could feel the joy bubble inside, making him feel as giddy as a bride on her wedding day, and he could not restrain the giggle that forced itself past his lips. He had dreamed of this day for years, for in a way the previous night had been his wedding night: He would never marry, but belong to Dorian for as long as he lived. He was perfectly fine with that - in fact, the thought made him feel even bubblier. He could feel the contentment coming from Dorian in waves, and for several moments they just lay there, smiling at each other like besotted fools. Unfortunately, the romantic interlude was interrupted by a knock at the door. Dorian frowned.

“Who can  _ that _ be at this hour?” He grumbled, as he reluctantly crawled out of bed and went to open the door. Icthlarin sat up in bed and admired how his mage’s nude body moved in the morning sunlight, but found himself slightly alarmed that Dorian opened the door without putting on a stitch of clothing. The human scowled at the servant girl standing outside, beet red with embarrassment at facing him.

“I am sorry, serah” she stuttered, looking everywhere but at Dorian, “but the First Enchanter requests your presence in her office immediately and that you please bring your templar.” Having delivered her message, the girl turned and fled down the corridor, completely mortified. Dorian closed the door and turned to Icthlarin.

“As much as I’d like to stay in bed all day and see if I can have you make even more of those delicious noises you made last night, we really ought to get dressed and go see what she wants. She’ll storm in here and lecture us otherwise.” Icthlarin pouted. This was supposed to be their time; not a time to deal with First Enchanters. He wanted to climb on top of Dorian and ride until they were both wild with pleasure, but apparently he would have to get dressed and go play nice instead. He kept pouting as Dorian dressed, now in disappointment at seeing that glorious body being covered up bit by bit. Finally Dorian turned to him, exasperated.

“Come on, get dressed. I do  _ not _ want to be lectured by Vivienne today. Last time she lectured me it took two hours and ended with me having to muck out the stables. For a month.” He made a disconcerted face, and Icthlarin scrambled to obey him. He hated mucking; the hallas that his clan raised were the kindest of animals, but gods did they excrete often, so he had plenty of experience. Within minutes, he stood fully dressed and strapped his daggers to his back. 

“Let’s go” he said grimly, and followed Dorian out the door.

 

Dorian kept a brisk pace through the castle, and though Icthlarin tried to get his bearings and a few details so that he would be able to find his way later, he was soon hopelessly lost in the corridors. Once he had given up, he instead oogled his mage’s hips and the way they moved as he walked. It was a much more pleasant sight than stone walls. Finally Dorian stopped outside a heavy door inlaid with gold filigree. He turned to Icthlarin.

“I advise that you keep quiet in here” he said quietly “Vivienne does not like when you talk back.” Icthlarin nodded to show that he understood, and steeled himself for what he suspected to be quite a confrontation once they stepped inside. But nothing had prepared him for the way Dorian’s face drained of all colour when he stepped through the door, or the way his voice sounded hollow as the grave when he uttered a single word.

“Father.” 


	6. til your tears run dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every endless night has a dawning day   
> Every darkest sky has a shining ray   
> It takes a lot to laugh as your tears go by   
> But you can find me here till your tears run dry  
> \- Ricky Martin feat. Enya, "Private Emotion"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, those of you that have waited for an update on this. Due to an obvious lack of interest from the fandom and my own depression, I lost interest in working on this for some time. It was too disheartening to write something people did not read. I have, however, realised now that I am not writing for readers. I am writing this for three people: Icthlarin and Dorian, who deserve to have their story told, and for myself. 
> 
> So here's the next part.

Icthlarin stood in the First Enchanter’s office and looked from the stranger by the window to Dorian’s tense frame and back again. The resemblance was uncanny: even if Dorian had not identified the man as his father, he would most likely have assumed such a relation between them. Icthlarin could sense Dorian’s unhappiness, although he did not know why he was unhappy, and instinct took over. He stepped in front of his mage, acting as a living shield, ready to protect Dorian from this unknown threat. The stranger smiled at Dorian, but this did not help calm him in the slightest; instead Icthlarin could feel his unease and anger increase. But it was the pain underlying the anger that made Icthlarin want to smack the man in the face. Repeatedly. With a chair. 

“Messere Pavus” Vivienne said, in a tone that was probably supposed to be diplomatic, “I will leave you to your conversation.” She glided out of the room with an air of casual elegance, leaving the three men in a silence that was growing more and more loaded by the minute. None of them spoke. Icthlarin was eyeing a chair speculatively, trying to determine how quickly he could break off a leg and use it as a makeshift weapon, when Pavus spoke.

“Dorian, my boy. It is good to see you.” Icthlarin glanced at Dorian and could see his jaw clench hard enough that it must have hurt, but he did not betray any pain.

“Father.” he said, voice frigid.

“I see you have made a… friend.” Messere Pavus’ cool dark eyes slid over Icthlarin, who was struggling with his instinct to eliminate the threat to his mage’s calm and contentment. 

“Icthlarin is my templar.” Dorian informed him with a tone of smug satisfaction. Messere Pavus frowned. 

“I see.” Icthlarin forced himself to actually look at Messere Pavus, not just assess him. The man looked tired - and unfathomably sad.

“So there is no point in you telling whatever lie you want to fill my head with, I will not listen. You can leave immediately.” Icthlarin frowned. This was, after all, Dorian’s family. 

“Dorian…” he said, carefully. “Perhaps you should listen to him. He is your father.” Dorian spun on Icthlarin, eyes angry and hurt. Every line of his body spoke of an old pain that had been buried deep, like an infected wound.

“Do you know what he did?” He snarled. “He tried to… to  _ change _ me. To make me what he wanted me to be.” The pain emanating from his mage made Icthlarin want to cry and kiss him and rock him like a babe. He did none of those things. Instead he went on, wanting to lance this putrid wound so the healing could begin. 

“Why would he want to change you?” 

“Because I prefer to lie with men.” Icthlarin frowned, confused.

“How do you mean?”

“Oh for pity’s-! Sex! Were you sleeping last night?” Dorian’s hands clenched and unclenched in impotent rage. He looked like he didn’t know whether to rage or weep. His pain intensified and the urge to comfort him became even stronger.

“I understood that perfectly, I wondered what you meant with changing you.” Dorian turned his back on both of them, walking over to Vivienne’s desk and leaning on it as if in desperate need of support. When he spoke, his voice was raw and broken.

“There was a… ritual. That would… make me  _ different _ . Blood magic. If it failed, my mind would disintegrate. He thought it worth the risk.” His back was stiff as a board and Icthlarin felt his eyes prickle with tears. 

“I am sorry, Dorian.” Messere Pavus said, softly. 

“Sorry?” Dorian spun around, heartbreak written all over his handsome face. “You were prepared to rip my mind to shreds just to marry me off!” His voice broke on the last words. “And that was after- after-” Dorian closed his eyes, struggling to hold back tears.  The look of heartbreak on his face proved to be too much for Icthlarin. He threw himself at his mage, winding his slender arms around him and pressing as close as he could. He could feel Dorian try to suppress a shiver as the mage buried his face in Icthlarin’s auburn hair.

“I think you should leave” he said quietly to Messere Pavus. “And don’t come back.”

Messere Pavus hesitated, reached out a hand towards Dorian as if wanting to touch him, hold him, comfort him, but then his hand fell uselessly down by his side again.

“Once” he said quietly, “I had a son who trusted me. I will never forgive myself for losing that.” Then he walked out the door, slowly, with the shuffling gait of an old man. Icthlarin watched him leave, holding his mage close and stroking his back, feeling him tremble with suppressed grief. 

“Let’s go back to our rooms” he whispered gently, leading Dorian towards the door. The other man followed, unresisting. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Wren sat, or rather hovered, in his favorite spot on the balcony in the great hall, which lay at the heart of the castle and saw nearly all her comings and goings. As usual when he had kicked of his boots, he hovered a few feet above the ground. A rope had been attached at one end to his waist and the other end to the ledge to keep him from floating too high. He usually spent most of the day there, as he did not really have any magical powers beyond the weightlessness and this made him feel like an outsider even amongst those he considered close friends. However, in the last few weeks, Wren had started feeling lonely. His dearest friend was Dorian, whom had arrived shortly after him and who he had shared the bewilderment of the isolation and the grief of having lost his family with. It had been nearly a year that they had clung to each other, sharing everything about themselves and seeking comfort in each other’s arms, and he still treasured that time in his heart. They were no longer lovers, but instead had become the closest of friends. Except now it seemed that Dorian had replaced him with another man: his templar, Icthlarin. Wren had always known that it would happen, but it still hurt to see Dorian completely focused on the elf to the point of sometimes not even noticing Wren’s presence. He missed his friend, and he would really have liked to talk to him now, ask for his advice about something that was simply way out of Wren’s depth. Bull. 

 

The mercenary had stormed into the keep for the first time two years ago. He had turned Wren’s whole world upside down within moments of his arrival, and the mage had no idea how to handle it. He had honestly never been in love before; when he was growing up he had been too focused on his little sister and his studies to care for such things, and then he had been sent to Skyhold shortly after his eighteenth birthday when his father, Lord Trevelyan, had found him floating just below the ceiling of his chambers and unable to come down. Their hold had been rather isolated, so meeting others his own age was a rare treat; nevermind getting to know anyone well enough to fall in love. And on Skyhold he spent most of his time with the other mages, all of whom were saving their hearts for their templars. He had never minded before, had taken pleasure where he found it and been both loose and free with his affections. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to Bull in the first place; everything had been easy, relaxed, passionate, but each time the qunari had left the keep it had become a little more painful to say goodbye, and each reunion had brought a littler more joy. Now, the thought of waking one morning not lying next to the qunari seemed unbearable, the sweetest of tortures. And at the same time he did not dare to speak of love with the other man; they had agreed in the beginning to keep this casual, since Wren was a mage and Bull not a templar. They would never last, and they both knew it. But the thought of bonding to someone else, belonging to someone else? No, it was unimaginable. 

 

He wished Dorian was there, so he could ask for help, for Wren honestly did not know what to do anymore. His heart was begging him to give Bull all he had, but still he held back. It would hurt enough when the other man finally left him without giving his all now. Wren sighed and rested his chin in his hand. His eyes flitted listlessly across the hall. Dorian and Icthlarin were walking across at an unusual speed, and Dorian seemed to be quite distant as if not aware of his surroundings. Wren leaned forward to see them better. Something was clearly bothering the other mage, and Wren wanted to go to him and speak to him, comfort him. But he stayed on the ledge; that was Icthlarin’s place now, not his. His heart felt heavy with sadness and confusion. He would have loved to talk to Dorian right at this moment, so that they might comfort each other. He missed his friend, so very much.

 

~~~~~~

 

Icthlarin closed the door to their chambers behind him with a soft click, then wound his arms around Dorian and pressed his own body close to the taller man in a silent offer of comfort. They had walked past several people on the way back, but no one addressed or approached them and Icthlarin felt immensely thankful. Dorian would surely not have appreciated being gawked at when this vulnerable. He stroked the faintly trembling back and just waited, content with being this close to the man he was rapidly falling desperately in love with. He did want to talk about the meeting with Ser Pavus, but not with Dorian this upset and hurt. No, comfort first. Then see if he couldn’t drain this wound which was clearly both old and infected. Dorian shuddered once, then put his arms around the slender form of his templar. 

“He… he was prepared to… to destroy me just to… to uphold the family honor.” He grated out, sounding like he was trying with all his might not to cry. Icthlarin stroked his back, turning his head to press kisses to the nape of his neck.

“Ssh, ma sulahn'nehn , I will not let anyone hurt you. I will never let anyone hurt you.” Dorian looked at him with a slight frown, his lips twisted in unhappiness.

“I am fully capable of taking care of myself”.

“That I do not doubt. But you do not have to. You have me now, let me take care of you.” 

Dorian looked at the beautiful man in his arms. Take care of him? It had been a very, very long time since anyone had wanted to take care of him… apart from in a carnal sense. But he saw the sincerity shining in the elf’s eyes, could feel it through the bond that was growing stronger and stronger between them by the minute. He smiled, even if it looked more like a grimace and he did not feel the least bit cheerful. To have seen his father again after so many years had been a dreadful shock, ripping apart an old wound that had just barely scabbed over and left him bleeding all over again. But Icthlarin’s presence was like a healing salve, soft and gentle and just what he needed. What he wanted. He leaned in to kiss those delicious lips.

“Show me” he whispered against them, “show me how you would take care of me.” 

 

~~~~~~

 

A slender waif-like human male, usually referred to as Cole, was wandering aimlessly through the library, his mind all over the keep. There were so many conversations going on, so many thoughts and emotions swirling around him, that it felt as if he was scattering into a thousand pieces carried on an invisible wind. It was a feeling that was not new to him; he had known it many times before. It came with his abilities. He struggled against it, using the brightest emotions he could find as an anchor to keep from going under. He could sense two souls shining bright with pain, anger, and sorrow. He put the book he had contemplated reading back on its shelf and moved over to the banister. If he leaned forward just a little, he could see the two souls on the other side of the rotunda. One was a soul he knew well at this point; a maelstrom of pain, anger, grief, and power hidden under a veil of charm and sarcasm. The other was older, sadder, resigned. Dorian and his father. It seemed as if the confrontation that had been waiting to happen since Messere Pavus arrived nearly two weeks ago was no longer avoidable. Then again, Dorian must have known that he could not avoid his father forever. As he leaned forward to listen to their words and not just their emotions, he realised that he had not needed to bother. Dorian was yelling loud enough to be heard in the entire hall, the Magister trying to calm him and failing. 

 

“Dorian…” Messere Pavus said, a pleading note in his voice. “We need to talk. I have been trying-”

“No, you do NOT get to do this.” Dorian’s voice rose. ”You do not get to lay another guilt trip on me!”

“I am not-”

“Don’t you think I punish myself enough? Every single day! Do you know what I see when I look in the mirror? I see a monster!” As Dorian’s hands moved agitatedly a slow breeze began to blow through the library, rustling the papers. 

“You are not a monster, child.” Messere Pavus sighed deeply. “Child, it was an accident. a tragic accident.”

“I am not your child!” Dorian yelled, ignoring the attempt at comfort. “Remember? You were the one to tell me that! The night I left! No son of yours could ever be the sort of  _ degenerate pervert _ I had proven to be!” 

Messere Pavus tried to get in edgewise, but Dorian wasn’t having it. It was as if these words had been inside him for years, aching to get out, and they were going to come out now. 

“Do you have any idea how that felt? I thought I couldn’t hate myself any more than I already did, but that night you proved me wrong!” He drew a deep breath and then went right back to yelling, not caring who heard. “I tried for years -  _ years  _ \- to be perfect! To be the son you wanted me to be! And I couldn’t. I couldn’t deny myself anymore! And once I finally realise that to be the child you wanted I had to  _ live the rest of my life in a lie _ , you-” He broke off, as if he had finally run out of steam. His soul burned so bright it hurt Cole’s eyes to look at him. So much pain.

“Dorian-” Messere Pavus tried again. But Dorian still wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise. 

“No! I don’t care what you have to say! You don’t deserve to say anything to me! You tried to destroy me, make me into a shell of a man just so that I’d fit your idea of the perfect son. You expected me to spend the rest of my life living a lie, dying inside a little every day, hiding my entire self away as if it didn’t matter. A shameful secret to be hidden in the dark!” Dorian was sweating, eyes flashing, gasping for breath, but the dam had finally broken and all the pain and anger he carried inside was pouring out like pus from an infected wound. The breeze increased in strength, sending scrolls fluttering to the floor.

“And for what?” Dorian’s voice was raw, barely more than a whisper. He looked like he was about to either cry or release a tornado. “Because I kissed a boy. Because I… I had  _ feelings for a fellow student _ .”  He drew a deep breath. “Because you couldn’t accept that I prefer men. That there would never be a wife.” He turned his face away, unable to look at his father anymore.

“You were willing to destroy me completely just to… to make me  _ normal. _ ” The last word came out as a mix between a sob and a whisper, and Cole ached to comfort him somehow. But he also knew that Dorian would not accept him; he had never accepted comfort for anyone. Well, except for his templar… Cole sent a tiny nudge Icthlarin’s way, suggesting that maybe he should go spend a little time with his mage. Messere Pavus tried one last time to speak to his son.

“Dorian, please-” but Dorian was already turning away, his jaw clenched so hard it must be painful.

“No.” he said coldly. “Go back to Tevinter. Forget I ever existed. Like you told mother to do.” He swept out of the library, sending books and papers tumbling to the floor in his wake. Cole watched him go, silent. There was nothing he could do for Dorian now. But Dorian wasn’t the only one hurting. He turned back to the tevene magister, who was leaning against the table with an exhausted look on his face. This was another wound that needed to be lanced, and Cole could help with that. 

 


	7. jealousy is a green-eyed beast

_ Oh can't you see - you belong to me _ _   
_ _ My poor heart aches _ _   
_ _ With every step you take _ _   
_ _ \- Sting, "Every breath you take" _ __   
  


 

Cole moved around the room slowly, navigating past the knocked-over scrolls and books, approaching carefully like one would with a wild animal. He tried to get a feel for the man before speaking, but it was difficult. He could sense pain, and sorrow, and frustration, and exasperation. This was a father who loved his son, but did not know how to love him. A man who did not know his child, and was hurting with the realisation. A man who was weighted down with sorrow and loneliness, and who did not know what to do to change it. Cole cocked his head to the side. 

“He loves you too, you know.” He said, softly. Messere Pavus jerked and spun around, a small ball of fire in his hand, ready to strike. When he saw Cole, he frowned.

“Who are you, boy?” he demanded. Cole ignored the question; it wasn’t important.

“He misses his mother very much.” He went on. “But he is angry with her, too. Something she said. He lost his temper.” The older mage nodded.

“Yes” he said softly as the fireball disappeared. “He always had a temper, even as a child. I can’t help but think I am partly to blame for that. I wasn’t… very present, in his life. I had my own work. And then…”  _ Frightened eyes, trembling hands, the other boy looking terrified, “father, I can explain-” _

“You caught him with a boy. You were angry. You yelled. Threatened. Called him a disgrace.” Messere Pavus nodded, sadly.

“You wish you hadn’t meant it.” Cole whispered. 

“Yes” it was barely more than a sigh.

“You were so angry. Your only child. Your wife was crying. She wanted grandchildren. You were desperate. There was a ritual. Blood. It failed. He never forgave you.” 

There was silence.

“He never will forgive you.” Cole said, quietly. “You wish it had worked. Wish it had gone wrong. Wish it had killed him. Wish you had never-” he felt his own eyes burn with tears. 

“Who are you?” the magister demanded, “Who knows these things?” 

Cole's head hurt with the question. Why must they always ask that? He tried to think, but the voices were growing louder as he tried and he couldn't focus. Why was that question so hard? Why was it important?  _ And why did his head hurt when he tried to remember? _ Cole frowned.

“My name is Cole” he finally ventured. 

 

* * *

 

As Dorian stalked through the keep, still bristling from the argument with his father, he suddenly heard a noise he was swiftly becoming rather fond of; Icthlarin’s laughter. Being a bit distracted by what he had read in the new book on magical theory he had finally managed to wrangle out of Vivienne’s hands, it took him a few moments to realise what the sound was coming from. But there was his templar, talking to a soldier Dorian knew by name only. Krem, one of the Chargers. As Dorian watched, he started to feel uncomfortable. Icthlarin was laughing, yes, but he was also standing very close to the other man. His eyes were sparkling with mirth, and his hands moving animatedly. To be fair, it was not the first time Dorian had seen Icthlarin smile like that at someone who wasn’t him, but this time it was different. A monster he was rather unfamiliar with was awakening inside, and it was  _ pissed. _ Jealousy, that was it. He was jealous. He knew, on a rational level, that he was being unreasonable; Icthlarin did not have many friends at the keep, so shouldn’t he be happy that he had Krem at least? But if that Charger did not get his hand of his templar’s arm in the next five seconds he was going to pull back a stump. Icthlarin was  _ his, _ damn it! As if having sensed the rather irate mage storming towards them with a scowl on his handsome face, Krem hastily removed his hand and took a step back. He shot a nervous glance at Dorian, leading Icthlarin to look over his shoulder in bewilderment. When he saw Dorian, he lit up in a smile that normally had the mage befuddled for at least fifteen minutes, but it did not have its usual effect now. Dorian stalked up to stand beside Krem, levelling him with a glare that would have sent a lesser man running.

“I believe you have some urgent business to attend to.  _ Elsewhere. _ ” Dorian seethed, and Krem nodded hurriedly. 

“I do, thank you for reminding me. Lari” Dorian bristled at the nickname, “I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“Alright…” Icthlarin was still clearly confused, but anger was beginning to flash in his bright green eyes. 

“Templar, we need to talk” Dorian scowled “in our rooms.” 

Icthlarin scowled right back.

“Lead the way,  _ mage _ .”

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull was not a coward, and if you as much as hinted at him possibly being a bit chicken he’d kick your ass from wherever to the Black City and back before making you buy him a drink. Twice. That did not stop him from standing outside the door and trying to gather his courage to enter the chamber beyond and say something that had become harder and harder to say each time he had to. It was time to go tell Wren that the chargers were leaving Skyhold. He was looking forward to it about as much as a prisoner is looking forward to a trip to the gallows. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Their… thing… had been going on for about two years at this point, and he was finding it harder and harder to leave his beautiful lover at Skyhold and wander off. He wanted to take Wren with him; show him the world beyond the walls. But Wren was a mage, and Bull no templar. He did not want to be a templar. And that meant that sooner or later there was going to be someone else getting to hold his blue-eyed beauty. To kiss him, touch him, lie with him. Perhaps it was better to end things now, before the word that rested on the tip of his tongue slipped out without his permission.  _ Kadan _ . Beloved. He wanted to whisper it into the shell of an elegant ear as his hands stroked soft, pale skin. They had never spoken of love before, and he knew that it was a bad idea to even consider it. It wouldn’t last; it was impossible. But there it was. He loved Wren. Wanted to have him for always. But the Maker wasn’t going to let that happen. It was probably better to end things now. He raised his hand to knock when the door opened and he was met by a smile that took his breath away.

“Were you going to stand there all day?” Wren teased, and Bull resolved in that moment that they could talk later. Much, much later. He pulled Wren close and kissed his luscious mouth, suckin on the eager tongue slipping out to meet his.

He didn’t bother answering as he pulled a very willing Wren down onto the bed, tearing off his clothes as they went. 

 

* * *

 

“If you think for moment that I am just going to stand by and watch you-” Dorian snarled as he slammed the door shut so hard the window panes rattled. He turned on Icthlarin with a furious scowl.

“ _ Me! _ ” Icthlarin hissed like an angry cat in response. “You’re the one who makes cow eyes at every man within ogling distance!” His fingers curled like a cat releasing it’s claws. 

“That is a lie and you know it! Besides, you were practically batting your lashes at that -!” Dorian broke off into a muffled curse, which turned into a yelp of pain as Icthlarin’s sharp nails found his cheek. 

“You’re  _ insane!” _ Dorian yelled, gripping the slender wrist hard enough to bruise.

“Krem and I are  _ friends  _ you- mpfh-” Whatever the templar had been about to say was drowned in Dorian’s mouth as the mage attacked his lover’s lips with his own starving mouth. Icthlarin jerked his head back so hard he nearly struck the wall, eyes flashing with temper.

“You bast-” but he was silenced again by Dorian’s lips, pressing against his so hard it hurt. He bit down hard on the mage’s tongue when it forced itself past his lips. Dorian snarled and slammed the smaller man up against the wall, biting his neck and shoulder as if to stake his claim. Icthlarin struggled, refusing to admit that seeing Dorian so forceful was one hell of a turn on.

“Get off me!” He yelled as he managed to get a hand loose from Dorian’s punishing grip, scrabbling for any kind of leverage. He found the mage’s shirt and ripped with all his might. The fabric made a satisfying noise as it gave way, splitting in a long gash down the front. 

“This is  _ tevinter silk _ , you heathen!” the mage snarled, furious. Icthlarin laughed, a wild triumphant sound.

“You’ve only got yourself to blame!” He tried to squirm away again, but Dorian was still bigger and, in his rage, stronger than him. The human kissed his mouth again, brutally plundering its depths as one of his hands held Icthlarin pinned. The other gripped his arse, groping it none too gently. It should  _ not _ have been hot. Icthlarin groaned in frustration and desire. 

“Fuck, why do you have to be so-” he gasped as Dorian ripped his shirt off, baring his feverish skin to the night air. He instinctively hooked his legs over Dorian's, pulling him close. Their erections ground against each other through their breeches. 

“You’re the one who’s always-” but Icthlarin didn’t let him finish, pressing hungry kisses against that delicious mouth. His free hand found the fastenings to Dorians breeches and he ripped them open, not caring for the damage to the fabric. He shoved his hand inside, wrapping slender fingers around his lover’s throbbing cock. Dorian cursed loudly, hips jerking into Icthlarin’s hand as if of their own will. He stumbled back from the wall, bringing Icthlarin with him. He threw the redhaired elf down onto the floor, making the air expel from his lungs in one fell swoosh. Icthlarin felt slightly dazed from the impact, or maybe it was seeing Dorian kneeling between his spread legs, ripping off his clothes. 

“Get off me or I’ll scream!” He threatened, ignoring the way his hips lifted in invitation. 

“And what” Dorian laughed, breathless, eyes still flashing. “Cry rape? Can’t rape a slut like you.” Icthlarin howled as the mage in one thrust shoved his cock into his unprepared passage. His nails instinctively raked down Dorian’s back. “Besides” the mage growled as he started fucking. “It’s my rights as- your- mage-” every word was punctuated by a brutal thrust, “to. get. what. I. want.” Icthlarin moaned, screamed, clawed, and soon enough he was begging. But not for Dorian to stop -  _ gods no -  _ but for more, harder, faster. His nails raked down the mage’s back leaving stinging scrapes in their wake. His heels dug into the small of his back. His teeth left bruises and lightly bleeding wounds. It was like he was a rabid animal, furious and wild and insatiable. His fury matched only by the man pressing him down, rutting into him so hard he knew he’d bleed later. When Icthlarin came, he came so hard he passed out from it.

 

When he came to, he was lying on the bed, swathed in soft fabric. There was a throbbing between his thighs that told him that he would be there for a while, and there was a dark-haired man sitting on the edge of the bed, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Dorian” he murmured, voice rough and scratchy. “What’s wrong?” He sat up slowly, carefully, wincing at the pain shooting through his body. Maybe a visit to the healer was in order. He placed a gentle hand on a dark shoulder, feeling slightly ashamed at the bright red marks littered over the man’s back. Had he made those? The shoulder was shuddering slightly.

“Dorian?” he asked again, moving a little closer. 

“I hurt you.” The mage’s voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“And I hurt you. We hurt each other.” Dorian made a choked noise.

“Lari I- I made you  _ bleed. _ ” He made as if to pull away and Icthlarin tightened his hold.

“Well, you were rough. Maybe a bit  _ too _ rough. That’s something we need to talk about.” He kissed the dusky skin. “Please look at me” he begged. Dark eyes hesitantly rose to meet his, and he hurt at seeing the pain and grief in those gorgeous orbs. He cupped Dorian’s face in both his hands, pressing kisses to those eyes until they flickered close.

“You did not hurt me, love. You were  _ magnificent. _ ” The dark eyes popped open, incredulous. 

“You- you  _ liked it?” _ Icthlarin smiled, a slow languid grin.

“Oh, yes” he purred as he pulled his gorgeous lover close, winding his arms around his neck.

“If I had known a bit of innocent flirting would turn you into  _...that _ , I’d have done it months ago. I shall have to make sure to do it again.” Dorian growled, pressing him down into the bed.

“Don’t you dare! You are  _ mine! _ ” 

Icthlarin laughed.

“You sure about that? Better stake your claim, then.”

 

 


	8. in the palm of your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time moves on and the plot speeds up.

 

_ Here is my heart, and I give it to you _ _   
_ _ Take me with you across this land. _ _   
_ _ These are my dreams; so simple and few _ _   
_ _ Dreams we hold in the palm of our hands. _ _   
_ __ \- Loreena McKennitt, "Never-Ending Road" (Amhran Duit)

  
  


As the days slipped by, autumn finally admitted her defeat and allowed winter to sweep in and encompass Skyhold in her freezing embrace. With her came snow, falling thick and silent over the mountains and gently dusting the roofs of the buildings within the keep. However as Icthlarin trudged through the Entrance Hall at around mid-morning, an unnatural storm had begun to wail around the towers. Outside the thick stone walls Skyhold lay abandoned, the few brave souls that had braved the outsides during the crisp morning having fled back inside as the wind picked up and the skies darkened. 

 

By the time a very disgruntled Icthlarin crawled out of bed and went in search of his mage, the storm was raging at full blast. The window panes rattled and a freezing rain thundered down over the castle, drenching everything that had not had the sense to hide. There was a none-too-pleased scowl firmly in place on Icthlarin's handsome face as he made his way towards the heavy oak doors. He would be the first to admit that he was not much of a morning person, but to wake up to cold sheets and a missing lover can make anyone cranky. He opened the heavy doors to go outside and was immediately thrown back by a strong gush of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. The door slammed shut so hard the walls shook. 

“What the-?” he gasped once he got his bearings.

“You’ll want to stay inside today” one of the soldiers who sat nearby playing Wicked Grace said. “No one goes out on this day of the year.”

“Yes, I can understand why!” Icthlarin pouted briefly. “But I want to see Dorian.” he added petulantly. The men playing cards laughed.

“You’re cute” another of them said, “but not exactly the sharpest sword in the armory.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“It’s your precious Dorian that’s the reason we don’t go outside on this day. He’s causing it.”

Icthlarin frowned. He had been told that Dorian mostly caused heavy wind when something upset him. If the winds were bad enough that everyone hid inside, it must be something serious. Perhaps it was that Ser Pavus had not yet departed? Dorian had been very frustrated and angry about it the night before, ranting about the other man not knowing when he had overstayed his welcome and First Enchanters being too bloody polite. Or something along those lines. To be fair, Icthlarin had tuned him out after only a few minutes. Once Dorian got going, he could go on for several minutes whether anyone listened or not. But he had seemed perfectly content later, after some very vigorous bed sports, hadn’t he? He’d fallen asleep in Icthlarin’s arms, completely exhausted, with a satisfied smirk on his lips. So what had happened between falling asleep and now that had the wind screaming around the keep loud enough to make the window panes rattle? He stood for several minutes, puzzling over this issue. Then he remembered something and turned back to the men on the bench. subconsciously , he angled his hips slightly and let his voice drop a few octaves.

“What do you mean, you ‘never go out’?” he asked, his voice  low purr, “Does this happen every year?”

“Since he arrived, yeah” the man who had first addressed him replied, his eyes widening and darkening with arousal. “Like an anniversary or something.” 

Icthlarin stood silent, absently chewing on his lower lip as he mulled over this new piece of information. The soldier stared at his mouth, riveted. Finally, his comrade seemed to have had enough and said, after having given his distracted friend a stern look,

“Go talk to Wren Trevelyan. He probably knows all about it, they are practically joined at the hip. Or at least they were until you came along.” Icthlarin flashed him a wide, bright smile in thanks, oblivious to how it had the poor man blushing crimson even as he squirmed slightly under the heat from Icthlarin’s eyes. Feeling much cheerier, the elf went off to find Wren. While it was true that Wren and Icthlarin barely got along on good days and by mutual unvoiced agreement avoided each other like the plague, well. The soldiers had been right; if anyone knew what had Dorian so upset - and where he was hiding - it would be him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Icthlarin finally managed to located Wren in his favorite place, hovering just above the balcony overlooking the great hall. He sat cross-legged with a look of contemplation on his handsome face, but when Icthlarin approached he pulled on the rope attached to his waist and this lowered himself enough to stick his feet in the heavy leaden boots that stood on the balcony floor. 

“Good morning, templar” he said politely, if chilly. 

“Good morning, mage Wren.” Icthlarin replied in an equally frosty tone, before jumping straight to the heart of the matter. “Have you seen Dorian?”   
“Today? No.” Wren shook his head. “But I advice you leave him alone until he seeks  _ you _ out.” 

“Why?” Icthlarin demanded. 

Wren opened his mouth as if to reply, then he thought better off it and shook his head. 

“That is not for me to tell” he said.

“So you do know why Dorian is so upset?”

“Yes. But he told me in confidence and I will not pass it on. You must ask him yourself.”

Icthlarin made a frustrated noise. Apparently, the mage was determined to be completely insufferable. 

“Look” Icthlarin said, “I know you don’t like it that I am Dorian’s one and only and that we share a soul which means that we are much closer than you and him ever were, but I only want to help him!”

The look Wren gave him was decidedly frosty.

“Dorian and I have been best friends for six years,  _ templar.  _ I know things about him you will be lucky to maybe find out by accident in twenty years time. The reason I know why he is causing the heavens to fall down on us on this day each year is because he told me.  _ In confidence. _ That means I took a mage’s oath on not telling anyone without his explicit permission. Not that I expect such a thing to mean anything to you.”

The conversation had all the makings of a proper row, but before they could get truly into it they were interrupted by a big, muscular mercenary calling for Wren down in the Main Hall. The mage’s face lit up in a way that almost made Icthlarin think him handsome, before he floated slowly but surely down to wind himself around Bull like an overeager monkey. The sound of the passionate kisses they shared made Icthlarin roll his eyes and he stomped off muttering to himself more or less all the way to the library. He was going to find Dorian and find out what the blazes was going on, so there!

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin climbed the last set of stairs to the western tower forcing his stiff fingers to obey him. He was soaked to the bone, shivering with the chill, and for what must have been the thousandth time he cursed his lack of adequate footwear. Or any footwear at all, really. His naked feet were far beyond numb at this point, and he could no longer feel the coarse wood beneath them. But it was only a minor inconvenience; the sorrow he could sense from Dorian was much more important. The mere thought of his mage being anything but happy - or aroused - was like a knife in his heart, and whatever it took he would make sure that Dorian was happy. As a templar, his main duty was to ensure the wellbeing of his mage, and in the short time they had been bonded the older man had become Icthlarin’s whole world. The sun rose and set in Dorian’s eyes, his laughter was life and his sorrow pure torture. So it was without any care for his own comfort Icthlarin stumbled onto the small area that constituted the top of the tower, immediately spotting his mage standing at the far edge. Dorian was focused on the wind wailing around him, caring little for the freezing rain that seemed to fall like a fine mist over the entire castle, shrouding everything in shades of grey. To Icthlarin, he looked like a beautiful King of Old challenging Mythal herself. 

He moved forward slowly, feet slipping on the wet stones, trying to quell his trembling. Finally he reached Dorian’s side, and reached out a shaking hand to touch him.

“Dorian” he choked out, not quite feeling his lips move. His face ached from the cold. Dorian spun around as if burned, a wild look on his face, his hand raised as if to throw a lightning bolt. When he saw who it was that had interrupted him, the hand slowly lowered.

“Icthlarin?” He asked, confused. “What are you doing up here?”

“I w-was w-w-worried” Icthlarin managed to get out between numb lips.

“You- vashante kaffas, you’re turning blue!” Dorian exclaimed, clearly frustrated. 

“S-s-sorry” Icthlarin stammered, the hand that had rested on Dorian’s arm falling to hang limply by his side. Suddenly he felt like an unwanted intruder.

Dorian raked a hand through his wet hair, a gesture that Icthlarin had come to know as a sign of the mage being frustrated and uncomfortable.

“No, it’s-” the rain calmed down, the wind not as punishing. 

“Let’s just go inside” Dorian sighed, putting an arm around Icthlarin’s narrow shoulders. He pushed the smaller male in front of him, back towards the trap door. The elf obeyed with reluctance, wanting to talk more than he wanted to be warm. Something was bothering Dorian, and he had a nasty feeling that he had only aggravated things instead of the comfort he had wanted to give.  

They walked slowly across the courtyard, Dorian holding Icthlarin close to protect him from the rain. Neither of them spoke, and Icthlarin hung his head so that is wet hair fell around his face. He couldn’t read Dorian at this time; all he sensed was sorrow and frustration. It made him feel ashamed, like a small child caught with his hand in the jam jar. 

Dorian stopped just outside the grand entrance, putting a finger under Icthlarin’s pointed chin to force his face up. Their eyes met.

“I’m not mad at you” Dorian said gently. “It’s just… this is not a good day, okay?”

“I know” Icthlarin said quietly. “I wanted to comfort you.”

Dorian’s eyes softened.

“The things you say…” It was barely more than a sigh, and then he pressed their lips together in a kiss that was full of gentleness.

“Let’s get you warmed up” Dorian murmured as he pulled back. Icthlarin looked up at him, dazed and breathless, willing to agree to absolutely anything if it got him more kisses.

“And then we should probably talk.”

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin tied the robe securely around his waist and wrapped a warm towel around his hair before exiting the bathroom. He felt warm and comfy and really just needed to cuddle with his mage for a bit and then he’d be right as rain, for lack of better expressions. Dorian sat in the armchair by the fireplace, seemingly lost in thoughts. They weren’t very happy thoughts, either. Icthlarin moved over slowly, stretching his toes as he went and enjoying the feel of the soft, lush carpet and warm stones. He placed himself on Dorian’s lap, his favorite place to sit, and looked at him expectantly. It took a moment or two before Dorian seemed to realise that he was present, and on instinct he wrapped his arms around his templar’s slim form. They sat in silence for several minutes, Icthlarin content to be close to the one he loved, knowing that Dorian would speak when he was ready.

 

“Seven years ago on this day” Dorian finally said in a vacant voice, “my mother died.” Icthlarin felt his eyes fill with tears as he wrapped his arms around his mage in silent support. 

“I was there when it happened.” Dorian added in the same tone, staring into the fire as if it carried the answers to questions he dared not ask. He squeezed Icthlarin closer. 

“I’m so sorry, ma elgara .” Icthlarin murmured. Dorian nodded slowly. Then it was as if he seemed to come back to himself, and he looked down at the redheaded elf nestled in his arms.

“What about you? You never speak of your family. Surely you must miss them.”

Icthlarin hesitated. This was something he did not really want to burden Dorian with, besides it was over and done with. But… they were being open with each other now, it would not be fair if he did not share.

“There is no one to miss.” He said simply, and Dorian stared at him incredulously.

“No one at all?”

Icthlarin shook his head.

“No.”

 

* * *

 

Bull carried Wren like he was fragile all the way back to the mage’s rooms, where he carefully put him down before he closed the door. Bull did not want to have this conversation, especially not when Wren was looking like that - all soft and warm and slightly damp since the entire keep tended to get rather soggy on rainy days. His dark hair was falling around his face in loose curls that made Bull’s fingers itch to mess it up even more. But it had to be done - the chargers were set to leave in the morning, and the word that still hovered on the tip of his tongue was getting more and more demanding. He needed to do something before he did something stupid, like declare his undying love.

Wren slid his elegant hands down Bull’s chest, smiling in a way that made his face glow, and in that moment he was as beautiful as… hell, Bull didn’t even know. He wasn’t one for sweet talking. Wren pressed his hips against Bulls in blatant invitation, but in order to keep his wits about him Bull chose to stare determinedly out the window, ignoring how his body reacted to the mage’s mere presence.

“We need to talk” Bull said, trying to come off as calm but not dismissive.

Wren’s smile didn’t disappear, but it lost some of it’s shine.

“Normally people only say that when they’re about to break up with someone” Wren teased. Bull kept looking out the window, determined not to give in. He had to do this.

“Bull?” Wren’s voice was questioning, and the scent of his hair filled the qunari’s nostrils as the human stood on tiptoes in an attempt to catch his gaze. “You can at least look at me.”

Bull steeled himself and lowered his gaze to look at Wren’s upturned face, keeping his own face impassive so as not to rip off the dark robe hiding the mage’s body from his gaze. Or throw him onto the bed and have his way with him. Or both. Instead, he did neither. Simply contented himself by staring out of the window, trying to think of the right words to say.

 

* * *

 

Dorian stared down at the elf in his lap, not believing what he was hearing. No family at all? No one who missed him, worried about him, thought about him? No one to write letters to? 

“Was it… long ago, you lost them?” He asked, carefully. He was not sure if this was a tender subject or not. Icthlarin had never let on that there was any darkness in his past. 

“My mother died when I was born” Icthlarin said matter-of-factly. “When I was five, my sister was caught using magic and was taken to a circle. Father died around that time.”

Five years old. Maker, he had been a mere babe! 

“How… how old was your sister?” 

“Same as me. We were twins.” Dorian’s heart ached for him. Icthlarin had, in other words, lost half of himself when he was five - and shortly after, the only one he had left. 

“I’m so sorry, amatus.” He said as he ran his hands down the slim back.

“It’s alright” Icthlarin said with a shrug. “It was a long time ago.” 

Dorian did not agree, though. He felt as if there was a wealth of things that Icthlarin had only just started to share with him, and it made him wonder how much more there was. Then again, did he not have several dark secrets himself? Perhaps they both needed to talk more, and spend less time in bed. No healthy bond could be built on sex alone. Even if the sex was amazing… speaking of sex, Icthlarin had started pressing open-mouthed kisses down Dorian’s neck, his still-chilly fingers finding and undoing the fastenings of Dorian’s robe. 

“Lari” he gasped as they found their way inside to touch his suddenly feverish skin.

“You know” the elf purred as he changed his position to instead be straddling Dorian’s lap, “we haven’t tried this chair yet…”

It was an obvious attempt to distract him, but it was proving highly effective. Dorian claimed his lover’s mouth in a bruising kiss.

“This conversation isn’t over” he growled as the robe covering the slim form fell to the floor, swiftly followed by the towel that had restrained the wild red hair. “But it can wait.”

“Sounds good” Icthlarin moaned and pressed closer. “ _ Touch me. _ ”

 

* * *

 

Wren’s smile slowly fell away, and for some reason that hurt all the way down to Bull’s core. He still had no idea what to say, and so he settled for his usual mix of snark and kindness.

“Just wanted to let you know we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Wren asked bewildered. “But, what about-” he was clearly lost for words, as his hands felt uselessly to his sides.

“Aw, gorgeous. Don’t look at me like that.” Bull cajoled, “We had fun, yeah? But you're gonna get your templar and live happy ever after. That's how it goes." He shrugged a massive shoulder, doing his best to come off as nonchalant. Apparently, it worked a little too well because Wren looked as if he’d struck him.

“I don't want a templar! I want you!" Wren’s voice broke as his eyes filled with tears he was too proud to let fall. "I love you" he begged. 

Bull stared out the window again, unable to see that look any longer. He wanted so badly to say it back. But if he did, he wouldn’t be able to do this. And it was better to cut the ties now, before they became cast in iron. 

"I know. But I'm not your templar, Wren."

"You don't know that!" Wren shrieked, desperate with denial. 

Bull leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and sweet and goodbye. Then he did the hardest thing he had ever done and walked out the door, acting as if it was nothing. Like he wasn’t leaving his heart behind at Wren’s feet. 

 

* * *

 

Cole put his book away and rubbed at his temples, sighing deeply. The yelling going on just outside the library door was giving him a headache.

“Dorian, just calm down for one minute-”

“No! I have had it up to  _ here _ with being calm and understanding. I will not stand here and listen to any more  hateful vitriol spewing from your mouth! It is nothing I have not heard before!”  Dorian’s voice was past angry and heading into hysterics with all the speed of a seriously pissed of dragon chasing a knight. Or a hungry warden at dinner time. Not much of a difference, really.

“You have not even listened to what I have to say!” Messere Pavus’ voice rose in frustration and Cole felt very sorry for himself. 

“I  _ don’t care _ what you have to say! No son of yours, remember! Both you and mother-” Dorian’s voice choked off mid-sentence, and Cole found himself listening closer even though he did not want to. There was pain here, old pain buried deep, just aching to be let out. A wound reeking of gangrene, stuffed with maggots and pus. The mental image was so sickening Cole missed part of the argument, but he came back to it just as Messere Pavus yelled

“-no good for you!” That apparently set Dorian off again, because he was clearly heard bellowing;

“That is not for you to decide!” as he stormed off down the hallway. Cole would know that gait anywhere. It was very distinct, like the way the ground shudders as the thunder rolls. He sighed gratefully as Messere Pavus stormed after him, still calling his son’s name. Finally, some peace and quiet. Cole picked up his book again, but found himself unable to concentrate. He still had that headache. Perhaps Minaeve could fix it. Except Minaeve was dead, he had forgotten that. It was hard to remember that she was dead when he could still see her in the healing wing, looking sad and pale and shimmery, with a rope around her neck. He would have to ask Ilona for help, instead. She was still alive.

 

* * *

 

Wren had no idea how long he had stood frozen in the middle of his bedchamber, uncomprehending. Had Bull really just… ended it with him? And then walked away as if what they had didn’t mean anything? He hadn’t even cared that Wren had said that he loved him. 

He opened his mouth to call out to Bull to come back, but he only managed to make an odd, broken little noise. He tried again, and this time the sound came out a bit more like a sob. He still couldn’t understand what had just happened. His chest was constricting as if he was wearing a corset and someone kept pulling it tighter; he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Scorching hot tears were slipping down his cheeks without permission.  _ You’ll find your templar _ , Bull had said. But that didn’t make sense; Bull was his templar. Wasn’t he? The only one who made him feel safe, wanted. The one who guarded his dreams and kept the demons at bay. He never feared temptation when he slept in Bull’s arms. 

But Bull had walked away.

Why had Bull walked away from him? It didn’t make any sense. Wren couldn’t understand it. 

And why was he crying?

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin felt at a bit of a loss as he wandered aimlessly through the vast halls of Skyhold. He was not on duty this day, but Dorian still had to practice. The mage had said that he was too gorgeous to be around when he did so as he proved too much a distraction, so therefore Icthlarin had agreed to keep out of the way. So here he was, feeling rather misplaced. 

It hadn’t occurred to him until now just how few people he knew in Skyhold; he had been so focused on Dorian to notice. But now, with his mage busy, it was painfully obvious that he didn’t know how to approach anyone. He barely knew their names. So, he wandered. Corridor up, and corridor down, without aim or purpose. He smiled politely at everyone he greeted and said a quick hello, but rarely got more than a short nod in reply. Dejected, he experimentally opened one of the many, many doors and blinked in surprise to find himself in a small herb garden. It seemed to be empty, but since he had nowhere else to go at the time he decided to take a stroll around it. at the very least, the sun would do him some good. 

 

The garden was beautiful, full of greenery and healing herbs growing in little pots all over the place. It made navigating a bit hazardous since he constantly ran the risk of knocking one of the little pots over, but eventually he managed to find his way to the swing that hung from the old tree in the furthest corner. He sat down carefully, worried it would not hold his weight. The old tree complained a bit, but did not give, and he dared to sit down fully. He kicked his feet in the soft grass, feeling listless and slightly forlorn. That was when he heard it. From somewhere above his head, a woman was singing. 

 

It took a few moments to recognize the song; the melody was completely foreign to him but there was something in the words that he recognized. He listened carefully, then smiled when he realised what she was singing about. It was an old story, one that all templar recruits were to know by heart; The tale of Brave Ser Jaime and the Mage Eilonwy. Icthlarin could recite the story word by word, but had never heard it sung before. He leaned his forehead against one of the worn ropes composing the swing and listened as the unknown voice sang to him about the grand battle in which the Mage Eilonwy had been slain. She should have been safe in the healing tents but a small group of enemy soldiers had snuck in and murdered the healers. When Ser Jaime felt his mage die, he had gone mad from grief. As Icthlarin listened, the woman sang of how Jaime had cut down dozens upon dozens of the enemy, all the while screaming his mage’s name like a battle cry, and how it had taken six templars to slay him once the battle was over. He quoted the last few words along with her singing, of how the templar’s spirit had been reunited with his mage as their bodies were laid side by side. 

It was a sad tale, told to templar apprentices as a forewarning as to their fates if their mages died. They would go mad with the loss, and their brethren would have to kill them.

_ I wonder who would slay me,  _ he thought and shivered.  _ If I lost Dorian- _ but the thought was too painful to even contemplate. True they had not known each other for long, but Icthlarin knew without a doubt that he had loved Dorian since he was born. He was a templar, after all. And Dorian was his mage. If he lost him… he shuddered in horror. He simply could not lose Dorian, that way lay madness. Just like it had for Jaime. 

 

* * *

 

Wren couldn’t breathe. It was like his throat was constricting, full of tears and screams. It burned as if something was pressing into his skin, and blinded with tears he raised his hands to pull away whatever it was. His fingers touched something soft and smooth that had not been there moments before. It hurt; his lungs were screaming, his hands clawing helplessly at the soft, smooth  _ thing _ restricting his breathing. As his blurry vision started to darken, he realised what it was. 

_ “A rope…”  _ Wren thought muzzily as he fell into darkness.  _ “Bull…”"  _


	9. not everything lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was in your arms, thinking I belonged there  
> I figured it made sense, building me a fence  
> Building me a home, thinking I'd be strong there  
> \- ABBA, "the winner takes it all"

In the courtyard, Krem frowned at Bull who had been unusually surly most of the morning. The other chargers had tried to pry, but had finally gotten fed up with his snarling and viciousness and backed off. They had just finished packing up and were having a final round of drinks before setting out; the weather had finally let up and they were all itching for the road. Krem turned to Bull, about to say… something, when the other man made a choked, wheezing noise and bent forward as if someone had punched him in the chest. 

“Boss? You OK?” Krem asked in concern. Bull didn't answer. His throat was constricting as if someone was squeezing it, and he clawed at the invisible snare. Then a wave of our panic swept over him and he understood. With a furious roar he stood up so fast the table flipped over, sending chairs and drinks flying. 

"WREN!" he roared and was out the door before anyone really saw him move. The chargers sat in stunned immobility for what felt like an eternity, then as if on command Krem jumped to his feet and ran out after him. 

The Bull was a big man, and when strolling he kept a pace that usually meant you had to jog to keep up. Catching up to him now, as he tore across the courtyard, meant that Krem had to sprint like he had an angry dragon on his ass. No, actually he had to run faster than that if he wanted to catch up. Bull stormed up the stairs at a speed Krem hadn’t know him capable of, taking the steps up to the keep three at the time. He left a highly confused Krem in the dust, but due to his size and earlier outburst Krem had a rough idea where he was heading and did his best to ignore his screaming lungs as he tore up the stairs.

 

~~~~~~

  
  


Having grown tired of sitting in the garden and feeling sorry for himself, Icthlarin strolled lazily through the keep. He had trained most of the morning, and now he pondered whether he should go have a bath or locate Dorian first. The latter certainly held appeal, since it would render it possible to drag the mage off to join him in the bath… Mind made up, he directed his lazy stroll towards the grand library. 

 

He was almost at the doors when he was just about run down by a wild-looking Iron Bull, storming through the keep like… well, a raging bull was probably the best description. Krem came flying after him like an equally raging matador, yelling “sorry!” over his shoulder as Icthlarin swiftly jumped to the side. Icthlarin gave a confused little wave, then shrugged. It was none of his business, really. He turned and pulled the heavy library door open.

 

As he wandered through the library he just saw the usual folk, and nodded his head politely to most of them. He did not really care for anyone at the keep except for Dorian, but it didn’t hurt to be polite. He had made a few acquaintances amongst the templar too; they were easier, quickly accepting a bonded templar amongst their midst and making him feel like he belonged. His was, Icthlarin figured, mostly down to Shamus Cousland. It was impossible not to like the Fereldan, and he always made sure that everyone felt included. No wonder he had been given the prestigious title of second in command. 

 

Someone was playing on a piano, and Icthlarin could not help but to follow the music to a small wooden door, hanging slightly ajar. Next to it was a very dusty brass plaque reading “sun room”, and Icthlarin pushed it open. He immediately noted that the plaque most likely had been misplaced, for it made no sense to call a room with only one thin, high window a ‘sun room’. It barely let in any light through the many, many small glass pieces joined together to form what Icthlarin supposed was some sort of religious motive. He didn’t know much about human religion and honestly did not care enough to learn. As Icthlarin looked around the small room, he had to admit that it was, in fact, a rather accurate description. The entire chamber seemed to glow as if the sun was shining directly down on it, although there was no braziers on the walls and no chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There were a few chairs and dusty shelves, but what drew Icthlarin’s attention was not the beauty of the light or the air of serenity that it created. No, what held his attention was the mage sitting on the footstool by the instrument placed in the centre of the room. 

 

~~~~~~

 

The servant girl who had been singing the ballad of Ser Jaime and Eilonwy as she swept the hallway, had not a thought in her head apart from what might be served for dinner. In her defense, she was young and healthy and her family was doing well, so there was really no need for her to worry. Well, apart from that nasty business with the killer sneaking around. But that was not her concern; she was just a commoner, and dealing with crime was for others. She had just turned a corner to get to work on the staircase when she was nearly run down by a huge qunari storming through the keep like a demon was after him. Shrieking in fright, the servant girl jumped to the side just like Icthlarin had mere moments previous. She reacted just in time to avoid what would most likely have been a very painful collision with the large man. Hot on the qunari’s heels came that handsome mercenary she had seen before, and he stopped briefly to press her hand in apology. Blushing wildly, the girl watched him sprint after his boss, her heart thundering in her chest. Maker, Krem was  _ soo _ handsome!

 

~~~~~~

 

Bull was lost to his instincts; a frantic little voice inside screaming about Wren and danger. It lead him down a corridor and to a door he knew well - he'd had the handsome mage up against it several times. He didn't give himself time to check the lock, instead he gave it one strong kick and felt a twinge of satisfaction as the wood splintered. What awaited him beyond the door was going to haunt him the rest of his life. 

 

Wren lay face-down on the floor, sprawled like a doll that a child had grown bored with and thrown away. Around his neck was a thick rope, cutting deeply into the soft flesh and turning it a nasty blue. Bull roared again, sounding like a wounded animal too proud to call for help, as he fell to his knees beside the man and turned him over with shaking hands. Wren’s eyes were wide and vacant, the normally lush, pouty mouth slack and partly open. His chest was a vivid mess of red, and it didn’t take a genius to realise that it had been cut open to remove his heart. A red fog filled Bull's head and he howled as something within him tore in two. 

 

Krem stood frozen in the doorway, his brain not registering the scene before him. That was not his big, strong boss rocking a limp human male in his arms, begging him to “open your eyes kadan, open those pretty eyes for me.” 

Except it was. 

Krem sank slowly to his knees beside the tableu he did not want to see and reached out a shaking hand.

“Boss…” Bull snarled at him, pulling Wren’s limp body closer and turning away, as if shielding him.

“No, stay away. He’s been hurt.” He rocked slowly. “Kadan, it’s alright. You’re safe now. Just… open your eyes. Please. Wren.  _ Kadan. _ Open your eyes…”

The brokenness in Bull’s voice ripped through Krem like a well-aimed crossbow bolt as he lowered his head and felt his eyes fill with tears. 

“Boss…” he whispered, helplessly. “…Boss…”

 

~~~~~~

 

Dorian was clad in his usual white robes, one shoulder bared and with leather braces covering his strong forearms. He was amazingly pristine, considering the fact that there was nearly as much dust on the piano as the shelves. Icthlarin did not know the melody he played, but he could not deny the beauty and melancholy of the piece. Dorian’s hands slid over the keys with a simple elegance that spoke of many, many years of practice and the tune made something deep within Icthlarin ache. The mage’s head was hung low, and Icthlarin could feel the pain emanating from him. He could also sense a great reluctance to speak of whatever it was that bothered him, so instead of addressing it, he instead walked up beside his mage, let his fingers find and stroke the bare skin of his left shoulder and asked;

“Have you played for long?” gesturing to the dusty old piano. Dorian startled and turned around, for a moment alarmed. When he saw Icthlarin, the shields went up in his eyes and he only shrugged.

“Since I was little, however I do not have much skill. I never really take time to practice.” There was silence for a moment. Then he continued: “but I can give it a try - if you will sing for me.” 

The auburn haired elf standing there with his hair askew, smelling of clean honest sweat, sun-warmed leathers and fresh grass, was absolutely stunning to Dorian’s eyes. The mage found himself more interested in playing his templar’s body than the piano and when Icthlarin flashed him that trademark flirty grin, his heart skipped a beat.  _ None of that _ , Dorian admonished the traitorous organ even as he felt a great sense of gratefulness at the distraction fill him. So the templar was practically nothing like what he had expected, that did not mean that it would be a good thing to go completely doolally over him. Dorian turned back to the piano and let a tiny breeze blow away years of dust covering the top of it. The resulting billow of dust made them both cough violently, but soon the dust had calmed itself and laid in tranquil piles on the floor. Dorian, now satisfied that the instrument was possible to lean against without stirring up a cloud of dust, started playing a sweet melody he remembered vaguely from childhood. Most likely, he wasn’t getting anywhere close to the original, but Icthlarin seemed to know the song as he moved closer to the mage and started singing. His voice was nice, nothing outstanding, but pleasant enough and he could carry the note passably well. He would never be an opera singer, but he didn't sound like he was trying to skin a cat, either. The song was a silly little ditty about a shepherdess and a shepherd with quite a lot of kissing and even more fa-la-la-ing, not really made for a solo voice, but Dorian did not attempt to join in. Compared to the templar, he  _ did  _ sound like he was trying to skin a cat. No, best stick to the piano.

 

Once he had played the last few notes, he realised that Icthlarin had moved closer as he sang and was now standing pressed against his back. He realised all over again just how tiny the elf was. Dorian wasn't a tall man by any means, but Icthlarin could still probably rest his head comfortably on Dorian’s shoulder whilst the human was sitting down. Icthlarin's breath was very pleasant against the shell of his ear, and he turned his face slightly to look at his companion. Icthlarin's carefully freckled cheeks were flush with exertion from singing and training in the sun, and curse him to the void but the slight flush only served to make him even more irresistible than he already was. Really, it was all his fault that Dorian could not resist kissing the full lips, seeking the sweetness hiding behind them, coaxing Icthlarin's tongue out to dance with his own. One kiss became two, became many, and soon his handsome templar was straddling his lap, one hand in Dorian's hair and the other making quick work of the fastenings of his robe. Things would most likely have gotten heated if a polite cough had not been heard from the general direction of the door. They both looked up at the same time, to face a stony-faced Leliana. This was her usual expression, so neither Dorian nor Icthlarin cared much for it.

“Not in public, boys” was she said sternly then added; “the First Enchanter needs a word immediately, Dorian.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. “The Knight Commander wants a word at your earliest convenience, templar Lavellan” floated over her shoulder as she disappeared out the library doors. Icthlarin gave a wry smile and stole another kiss.

“Do you think she’ll kill me if I have a bath first?” he murmured.

“It is a definite probability” Dorian replied, highly amused.

“Pity. Oh well, we'll just have to do the encore later” 

“I'll hold you to that” Dorian replied, and squeezed his gorgeous arse before letting him go. Oh yes, definitely an ‘encore’ later. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Vivienne was about half-way through the monthly expenses, neatly compiled by Josephine, and doing her best to care. It was not easy; really, there was a  _ reason _ she had hired Josephine in the first place! They had a good deal going on, the four women who officially and unofficially ran Skyhold: Vivienne handled the mages, Cassandra dealt with the templars, Josephine wrangled merchants, diplomats, workers and whoever else was around at the present and Leliana… well, Leliana did whatever it was that Leliana did. The less questions asked the safer for everyone. She pretended to read a few more lines, then gave up and signed at the bottom. Really, Josephine was too upstanding and good a person to misappropriate as much as a copper coin, so why bother? And besides, where would she hide it that Leliana would not be able to find in three minutes before the dawn after having been up all night getting drunk with the soldiers? Nowhere, that’s where. If anyone had shady things going on in Skyhold, it was Leliana. But Vivienne was not particularly interested in having her templar suffer horribly (Leliana would never lower herself to anything as crass as murder - hurting someone you loved, though, was right up her alley), so she ignored it. Safer that way, and it let her claim ignorance. She had just dusted and dried her signature when a voice made her jump and spill ink all over her desk.

“First Enchanter, if I may have a word.”

“Leliana! For maker’s sake, have you still not learned how to knock?” Vivienne cried exasperated as she jumped up and tried to salvage her documents. Leliana looked impassively at her flailing, making no attempt to help out. Finally she said, 

“I can have copies made within the hour.” Vivienne glared at her as she looked down at her ink-stained robes. Couldn’t she have said so a bit sooner? She obviously had she no idea how expensive Silken Nether Cloth was these days. Leliana stood stock still in her chainmail and leathers, gloved hands clasped behind her back and her head slightly lowered. It made her appear like a soldier waiting for a scolding from her captain. It also put her face mostly in shadow, which was rather disconcerting. In all likelihood, that was exactly why she had chosen that pose. 

“No” Vivienne breathed in horror. “Who?”

Leliana finally allowed a smidgen of her sorrow surface, just for an instance. It was enough for Vivienne to realise that Leliana might have the thickest shields she had ever seen, but she had them to protect the heartbroken little girl beneath.

“Wren.”

The sole word was enough to make Vivienne’s legs to give out of her and she collapsed back in her chair. She opened her mouth to say something, what she didn’t know, but nothing came out.  _ Wren _ . She could see him in her inner eye; the twinkle in his eyes, the unrepentant grin. The way he always tried to find the best in every situation, even willing to play the clown to cheer a stranger up. Wren was dead. Foolhardy, charming, cheeky, brilliant Wren was never going to brighten a dreary winter day with his laughter again. The fennec had taken Wren. 

Vivienne shook her head in desperate denial, but there was no denying the truth. 

“Does... “ she finally managed, “does anyone know.”

“Only The Iron Bull, who found the body, and Krem, who informed me.” Leliana’s face was impassive again, but Vivienne had seen the heartbreak beneath the mask and she saw it again now. Leliana had adored Wren, just like they all had. He had often been up in her part of the library, trying to see how many jokes Leliana would listen to before she threw a book at him and threatened to push him over the banister if he didn’t leave her alone. And now he was gone. 

“Keep them quiet” Vivienne ordered, impossibly tired and sad. “Inform Cassandra and find someone to take care of the body. And if you see Dorian-”

“I have already told him that you need to speak to him. He should be here any minute.” Vivienne nodded distractedly. She should have known that Leliana was already two steps ahead of everyone else. 

“Thank you” she said faintly, trying to pull her own shields together well enough to be able to face Dorian. Leliana bowed shortly, then turned and walked out of Vivienne’s office with her usual brisk, ruthless efficiency. She might be struggling to breathe and wanting nothing more than to howl and wail at the cruelty and injustice of it all, but Leliana had too much self control to allow it. Later, alone in her little corner of the world with only her birds as witnesses, she would cry for one of the few people in the world she called ‘friend’. But not now. She still had to deal with his dead body. 

 

Vivienne's hands shook as she adjusted her ink-stained robe, wanting nothing more than to lock her door and never let anyone except Cassandra through it ever again. But that was impossible; she was First Enchanter of Skyhold, and with that title came a few horrible duties. Like this one. Oh Maker, she did not want to perform this one. But she had to.

 

She had to tell Dorian.


	10. the king of all birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very, very sorry, dear reader. This particular author is currently battling depression, health issues, and crippling writers block. And she is in serious doubt over whether anyone but her gives a damn about this fic.
> 
> It will be finished, but... slowly.

_ Oh the wren, oh the wren is a terrible rake _

_ Won't you give us a penny for the little bird's wake? _

_ It's up with the bottle and it's down with the can _

_ Give us a penny for to bury the wren _

_ \- Heather Dale, "Hunting the Wren" _

_. _

_. _

_. _

Vivienne closed the door to her office slowly, doing her best to keep her face calm and neutral. 

“If this is about yesterday, First Enchanter-” Dorian began, clearly already working out his defense on the passionate session in the hallway the previous afternoon. 

“No, dear, it is not. Although I would prefer that you keep your amorous activities with your templar to your chambers. You need to show a united front, but that does not give you the right to… show off, so to speak.” Dorian clenched his jaw, clearly getting ready to protest. One raised hand from her, however, made him pause. Vivienne stood silent, letting her eyes glide over the neat piles of documents, books and writing implements on her desk. Her fingers itched to tidy, but there was nothing to tidy. Instead, she drew a deep breath and said;

“Please, Dorian, sit down. You ought to be seated for what I need to tell you.” 

Clearly reluctant, Dorian obeyed. They had known each other for long enough by this point that Dorian knew Vivienne never exaggerated anything. If she said he needed to sit down, she was about to drop something big on him. Vivienne waited a bit longer, hoping for a knock at the door, but when it did not come she instead moved around the desk so that she could be close to Dorian if he were to react the way she expected him to.

“Dorian” she said, her voice unusually gentle. She did not want to cause him the anguish she knew her words would bring. “The fennec has struck again, early this morning.” Dorian looked at her blankly, clearly not understanding why she would want to tell him in private. Unless - horror crept into his eyes as he frantically searched for that link, the link he had grown used to. It had to still be there!

Vivienne, seeing the fear, put one slender dark hand over his, squeezing gently. It was an unfamiliar gesture, but as if on its own volition Dorian’s hand turned over and wrapped around hers. It was as if his body knew he needed comfort, even as his mind desperately tried to protect itself. Whatever she had to say, he did not want to know.

“Your templar is safe, child.” Vivienne’s voice was low, soft. Comforting. Like a mother speaking to her frightened child.  In fact, he is on his way here this moment.”

Dorian was rather surprised, but realised quickly that a mage incapable of comforting her charges when they needed it would never have been made First Enchanter. He forced his eyes away from their joined hands and up to her eyes, finding them bright with sorrow and grief. He could read what she had not yet said in her eyes, and he started to tremble.

“No” he whispered, shaking his head in denial. “No, not-”

“Yes dear.” Vivienne said, “Less than two hours ago. I am so sorry, Dorian.”

“No” it would have been a wail of denial if not for the fact that his voice would not carry. Instead, it came out as an anguished whisper as tears started to slip down his cheeks. “Tell me you’re lying” he begged, but she shook her head.

“I’m not, child. Wren is gone.”

Just then, there was the expected knock on the door and Vivienne called,

“If it is templar Lavellan, please enter. Otherwise come back later.” There was a pause, then the door opened to admit the slender red-haired elf that she had expected ten minutes ago.

“Sorry I’m-” he began, then he saw his mage and ran to him, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s shaking shoulders.

“Emma sa’lath ” he said, “please, what has happened? What ails you? What is wrong?” It was clear that Dorian was incapable of speech, so it was Vivienne that had to inform him.

“Wren was found murdered. The fennec.” Lavellan’s eyes filled with sadness as he nodded his head, then he recentered his focus on his mage. Vivienne nodded her approval; it was as it should be.

“Lets go back to our rooms” Lavellan murmured gently as he pulled Dorian to his feet. “Get you some privacy.” Dorian followed him, as if in a stupor. Tears slipped down his cheeks in an unending stream, but it was clear that he was not aware enough of his surroundings to notice them. It was a relief to Vivienne to see Lavellans gentleness; what she had seen of him previously, he was rather brash and thoughtless. But the man who gently guided his mage down the hall now, was completely different. They would be alright, eventually. Lavellan’s arms was the best place for Dorian right now.

Vivienne drew a deep, shaky breath as she closed the door behind them. She ran a weary hand over her face and to her surprise, it was wet when she pulled it away. She tasted one of her fingers and was even more surprised to find it salty. That was when she realised that she, too, was crying. Something inside her was splintering as she came to the heart-wrenching realisation that she could not protect her mages. Two of them dead within a month, and she had failed them both. More tears came, even though she had not given them permission. At least she was not sobbing like a child, as she sank deeper into her chair. Suddenly, she found herself jealous of Dorian. She needed her templar too. Needed her templar’s arms around her, the smell of her hair. Needed to be held and comforted.

“Cassandra” she gasped, more mentally than physically. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra, who was currently walking briskly through the great hall in order to not look like she was rushing, gave up all pretense and started running. Her mage needed her. 

~~~~~~

Icthlarin pulled an unresisting Dorian through the keep, torn between holding him and hurrying so that they’d get back to their rooms as soon as possible. Dorian was an intensely private man, and Icthlarin figured that the less people that saw his mage in this state the  better.

Finally they reached their own door, and Icthlarin pushed an unaware dorian inside and locked behind them. Then he wrangled his lover over to their bed, removed his shoes and coat and gently tucked  him in. Finally, he removed his own shoes and crawled in next to him, holding him close and letting him weep. 

Dorian cried silently, his body trembling as his tears fell onto Icthlarin’s neck. He gripped his templar hard, but even though it was uncomfortable Icthlarin could feel the desperation in the hold and thus said nothing, just kept on running his hands comfortingly down the taller man’s back. 

They lay in silence for an unknown amount of time, giving and receiving comfort as the unbearable knowledge ate its way into Dorian's heart and took up residence there. Wren was dead. His best friend was gone. But that was impossible. It was simply impossible that the brightest soul he knew had been quenched. He would never see his smile again, never hear his laughter, never banter or joke or just  _ talk _ to Wren again. He couldn’t fathom it, his mind reeled and fought with all its might against the knowledge. It was too much to take in, the pain too sharp to be felt at this point in time. No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, not now. Desperate for any sort of distraction, he pressed wet, trembling kisses against Icthlarin’s skin, hands fumbling for straps and buttons. 

Icthlarin understood exactly what Dorian was doing; he wanted to drown his pain in physical pleasure, unable to face it at this point in time. Well, if sex was what Dorian needed, then he was going to get sex. Icthlarin wound his arms around Dorian’s neck, kissing his quivering mouth with all the love he had in his soul. His slim fingers found the fastenings of Dorians robe, and each piece of skin that was bared to his loving eyes was caressed first with fingers, then with lips and tongue. 

Dorian laid back on the bed and let the templar explore to his heart’s content, finding pleasure in being the center of such delicious attention. He felt treasured lying under his lover, like he was something rare and precious that was to be worshipped and cared for. The intensity of Icthlarin’s passion for him swept through him and forced the despair into the depths of his mind, into a place where it would lie in wait until he was ready to face it. The gentleness of the kisses and caresses both ignited his passion and made him want to cry, because he could feel the tender affection in each and every one. 

When Icthlarin extracted himself from Dorian’s embrace to let his own clothes fall to the floor, Dorian found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the golden beauty being revealed to him; he pulled the other man close, feasting on his mouth and letting his hands run all over the delectable body. Their sighs and moans echoed through the chamber like a symphony of passion. The cries increased in volume when Icthlarin, slick and loose with oil and the attention of Dorian’s fingers, carefully straddled him again, slowly sinking down on his throbbing hardness. When their bodies pressed together, signaling that they were joined as far as they possibly could, Icthlarin gave a soft, sweet little sob before he started rocking his hips, slowly at first then with increasing speed. Dorian wrapped his arms around the trembling elf, pulling him close, pushing his hips up to meet him with every thrust. Their mouths fused together, each drinking the other’s passionate cries as they writhed together, passion building between them until it was a maelstrom that swept them away, making them cling to each other as their only safe harbour as the world came apart around them. When the pleasure reached its peak Dorian threw his head back and screamed out his lover’s name in wild abandon, pushing in as far as he could, desperate to have everything his templar could possibly give him. And Icthlarin, beautiful generous Icthlarin, gave. The last wall in his mind fell away and in that moment they were one.

After, they laid sprawled on the rumpled bed with Icthlarin’s head resting on Dorian’s chest. 

“That was…” He panted. Icthlarin’s green eyes were bright.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” Dorian pressed their mouths together, feasting on the lush sweetness that he would never get enough of. A slender hand found its way down between his legs.

“So” Icthlarin teased, “want to see if we can top that?”

“You’re going to have to give me a few minutes.”

“Fine” Icthlarin pouted. “I’ll just help myself, then.” Dorian groaned as the templar trailed scorching kisses down his chest. He was going to be the end of him. But what a glorious way to go!

~~~~~~

  
Cassandra gave Vivienne a worried g lance from out of the corner of her eye. The First Enchanter had a decidedly grey tone to her face, and her full lips were pressed together hard. The afternoon had been very trying for them both; for Vivienne, who found herself crying in her grief, and for Cassandra who had never seen Vivienne so broken before. It had tore her own heart in two to see her mage’s pain on top of the heartbreaking loss of one of Cassandra's favourite mages.

“Do you want me to do the announcement” she whispered, noting that Josephine’s fork stilled momentarily. She had clearly heard, but gave no inclination. Cassandra mentally thanked the other woman for not drawing any attention their way until Vivienne was ready.

“No” the dark-skinned woman replied, “I will do it. I  _ must _ do it.” Vivienne stood up slowly, suddenly looking as frail as a very old woman. Her elegant white robes were as impeccable as always, but this night they only served to make her look ashy instead of darkly radiant. She tapped the edge of her wine glass with her fork, making a sweet tone ring out throughout the hall. Slowly, the chatter of the people and clatter of cutlery against plates died down until there was silence and the occasional scraping of a chair. Vivienne opened her mouth to speak and found to her horror that her throat was clogged up with tears.

“Cassandra” she choked out, struggling not to break down where anyone could see her, “has news for you.” Then she sat down quickly, staring determinedly down at her tightly clenched hands. She would  _ not _ cry in front of the entire keep. Her mages needed her to be strong, to lead them even in a crisis. But… oh maker,  _ Wren was dead. _

Cassandra drew a deep breath as she stood up. She was faced with row upon row of worried eyes, and she understood the anxiety very well. Never in all her years as Knight Commander had  _ she _ delivered any sort of news at dinner. That had always been Vivienne. But now, it was clear to everyone that the First Enchanter was in no state to announce anything, and the anxious worry slowly made way for fear. 

“The fennec has struck again” Cassandra said as she let her eyes stray to the vacant seats. There were three; one that would never be filled again and two that would. The latter two stood empty this evening due to Dorian and Icthlarin choosing to dine in their chambers rather than face the rest of the keep’s inhabitants.

“Wren is dead.” Cassandra said, seeing no reason to put any sort of frills on the truth. For a moment, the silence was deafening as the echo of her last words slowly faded away. Then there was pandemonium.

There were mages crying, someone was wailing, the templars were in an uproar. Wren had been a well-known figured about the keep, and he had been loved. And in the midst of the cacophony, First Enchanter Vivienne ‘the woman of steel’ la Fer buried her face in her hands and cried. 


	11. love makes fools of us all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I would do anything for love  
> I'd run right into hell and back  
> I would do anything for love  
> I'd never lie to you and that's a fact  
> \- Meatloaf, "I would do anything for Love"

Halward Pavus was pacing the room at a speed that would have made less experienced people dizzy, but in Josephine’s opinion he did not hold a candle to an agitated Cassandra. Therefore, she made no attempt to keep up, instead she adjusted her long yellow silk sleeves, picked up her stylus and started writing an outline to a suitable letter for the Trevelyan family. It needed to be just the right combination of sorrow and pragmatism, which was why Vivienne had asked her to compose the missive. 

“Please, messere Pavus” Josephine said distractedly when he made no attempt to stop muttering to himself or waving his arms around. “Would you like some wine?” 

“No, I would not!” He exploded like a cauldron forgotten on the fire. “I would like to speak to the First Enchanter!”

“I am very sorry, messere, the First Enchanter is… indisposed.” drunk as a skunk, rather, but he didn’t need to know that. Vivienne hardly ever overindulged, but after the past few days, who could blame her? Wren Trevelyan’s absence was felt all over the keep, an acute loss that had them all reeling with the intensity of their grief. There was also shame, confusion, anger, and fear. There was a murderer amongst them, one who had taken four lives in a terrible way, and they had no idea who he was or how he chose his victims. Therefore they also did not know where he would strike next. 

Mr Pavus stopped pacing and made an obvious effort to calm himself. Josephine could feel his anger like a crackling in the air, the way you sense a storm just before lightning strikes mere inches from your feet. But, having served as diplomatic advisor (officially. In reality, she was more of a dogsbody that paid everyone’s salaries and kept them from killing each other over minor disputes) to First Enchanter Vivienne le Fer of Skyhold for the past five years, she was mostly unaffected. Josephine was used to mages who, in a fit of rage, released tornadoes in the library (Dorian), gave everyone splitting headaches (Cole) and lit the dining table on fire (Ilona). An angry tevene magister, with complete control over his magic, was hardly enough to make Josephine feel even slightly ruffled. Not even the glare he fired at her disturbed her equilibrium. She handed him the glass of wine he had rejected, and felt slightly irked when he drained half of the contents in one gulp. It was one of the finest vintages in Orlais, and he chugged it down like water. Well, he was upset, so she would have to excuse him.

“I understand that you are concerned of your safety, and the well being of your son-”

“You understand?” He snarled, “a mage was murdered right under your collective noses a mere day ago and you do not have as much as a clue as to who did it! How do you suppose to protect Dorian?”

“The best defense a mage can have is a templar,” Josephine replied diplomatically. “Your son is bonded to a highly skilled warrior.”

“Ha! He looks like a courtesan!”

“I am sure you are aware of the expression ‘do not judge the book by it’s cover’, messere.” Josephine poured herself some wine and was just about to continue, but Mr Pavus did not seem to be interested in listening. 

“That man is unstable and you know it as well as I do!” he exclaimed, “And that is not even mentioning his morals, or lack of them. You see the way he flirts with every man in the keep. He is turning my son into a laughing stock!” Josephine reminded herself to be patient. It would not do to attempt to smack sense into the man. Besides, she doubted it would help.

“The matchmaker, Lady Kallian Andras, deemed Icthlarin Lavellan as the best possible match for your son. That means that he is the perfect guardian. Dorian is perfectly safe.”

Lord Pavus tried to glare at her again, frustrated when it had no effect. The blasted woman in her fine purple and yellow raiments, her dark hair done up in the sort of elegant chignon that never went out of style, was completely unflappable. Josephine delicately sipped at her wine, reminding herself to see about suitable flowers for Wren’s funeral. The Skyhold gardens were mostly focused on herbs suited for alchemy, but surely they had flowers somewhere.

“I will take Dorian with me when I leave,” Mr Pavus announced, clearly not having listened to a word the diplomat had said. Josephine sat the glass down unnecessarily hard, ignoring the noise it made to signal that if it happened again it would crack.

“Mr Pavus, I strongly advise against such an act. Dorian is one of the strongest mages in Thedas, and-”

“And so was the one who died, I have come to understand! No, it is clear that my child is not safe under your care, and I will be taking him away at the earliest convenience.”

Making a last attempt to reason with the brick wall in human form she had in front of her, Josephine started;

“Messere, please be reas-” but apparently, Pavus considered the conversation concluded and turned on his heel, storming out of her office like a man on a mission. 

Josephine let him go, content to pinch the bridge of her nose and sigh deeply. Some days, it just did not pay to unlock her door. 

 

~~~~~~

  
While Josephine was trying her mostly-best to reason with the tevene magister (she was a bit off her game, but she hadn’t slept and was trying to keep tensions to a minimum whilst planning a funeral, so who could blame her?), there was quite a commotion taking place in the Grand Library. At first glance, it looked a storm had been let loose in it. Books and scrolls were spread over the floor, chairs lay upturned and tables knocked over. There was a fire burning in a corner where a brazier had tipped over. The few people that were still in the halls cowered behind toppled bookcases, praying to the maker to preserve their lives. In the midst of the disaster stood a wind mage, howling in soul-wrenching

despair. 

It was as if he was not even present; his dark eyes were wide, blank, staring at something no one else could see. As if he could not hear the whimpers and cries of his fellow mages or the fire crackling as it grew larger and larger, feasting on the books that lay too close to it. and to be fair, he didn’t. All he could hear were the words that had ripped his heart from his chest, turned his world upside down, and left him in this state. Words he had drowned out all day yesterday and most of the night with cries of pleasure and the obscene sounds of skin on skin, but that now were screaming in his mind. Three words, echoing over and over in his head.  _ Wren is dead. Wren is dead. Wren is dead. _

Leliana, who had been the one foolish enough to ask how he was doing after the news and brought the grief to the surface in full force, lay in a puddle of blood close to the entrance. The first gust of Dorian’s despair had thrown her there, making her collide painfully with the stone wall. Her arm was twisted beneath her body and she whimpered in pain, but was too dizzy and lightheaded to stand up. When she tried, all it resulted in was vomiting. She could hear the wind ripping through the library and tried once more to sit up. Another anguished wail from the mage in the eye of the storm released a gush of wind that pressed her back down, and her vision started swimming.

“Help…” she groaned feebly. “Someone help us.” 

~~~~~~

Icthlarin stood in the shadowy alcove outside the Diplomatic Advisor’s office and tried to make sense of the world. It was as if his head was full of angry bees, buzzing and zipping around in a maelstrom of yellow and black and sharp stingers. It was apparently true, what they said about eavesdropping. What he had just overheard was  _ definitely _ not something he wanted to know. The words throbbed in his head, whirling and churning and making no real sense whatsoever. Mr Pavus leave Skyhold and take Dorian with him? But that was impossible - Dorian was his, his mage, his everything. Pavus mustn’t take him away! 

But… this was Dorian’s father. His only family. And of course the man wanted to keep his son safe. Was Icthlarin not prepared to battle an archdemon to protect his mage? Of course he was. 

As Messere Pavus came out of the room and started walking down the corridor, Icthlarin backed deeper into the shadows. He did not want to be seen, convinced his torment was clear in his face.

And surely, his feverish mind went on through the droning of the bees, surely Dorian wanted on some level to reunite with his father, as Icthlarin had always dreamt about finding his sister again. They were family. And if they reunited and rebuilt all that was broken between them, then Dorian would want to go with him. He  _ would  _ be safe away from Skyhold. There was no murderers there, was there? But Icthlarin was created to protect Dorian! He did not need anyone else. Especially not the man who had abandoned him. 

Icthlarin’s legs shook as he, without really being aware of it, started following the magister down the corridor. The bees filling his mind sounded even angrier now and their insistent buzzing were drowning out any and all other sounds. It was as if someone else was controlling his body. It would be so easy… so very easy… 

Mr Pavus had reached the slim stone staircase now, and seemed lost in thought. He did not hear Icthlarin slip up beside him - or if he did, it was too late. One strong push was all it took.

Mr Pavus fell headfirst, tumbling helplessly down the stairs and landing with a sickening crunch at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t move. Icthlarin stood on the top landing, staring down at the immobile man with vacant eyes, hands still raised. It had been so easy… as if in a trance, he turned back and walked away, not knowing or caring what the consequences would be. He had gotten rid of the problem, hadn’t he? Now there was no way of Dorian leaving him. Surely that must be worth the possible awkwardness that could arise were Dorian to find out. Except he wouldn’t find out, would he? Nobody had seen. And Mr Pavus was dead. Wasn’t he? Dorian. He needed Dorian.

~~~~~~

As Icthlarin neared the library, where he sensed Dorian’s presence, he could hear the whooshing roar of winds. Through the winds he could hear screams and cries of fear and pain, and he hurried towards the heavy oaken doors.

As he slowly pushed the doors open and slipped inside, he stood for a moment frozen in horror as he tried to get his bearings. Then he firmly pushed his own woes away and, letting instinct take over, made a beeline for the man howling his grief in the midst of it all; his Dorian. His Dorian, who was hurting, weeping, screaming in despair over the loss of his best friend. Icthlarin ducked a heavy tome as he made his way closer, navigating around the piles and nearly colliding with a chair, but then he stood in front of his mage. 

Dorian seemed completely unaware of his presence, as he simply kept howling like a wounded animal. Each cry, as it tore itself loose from somewhere deep inside, brought another gust of frigid wind and Icthlarin trembled with the force of it. If he had not had a death grip on Dorian’s robe he probably would have met the same fate as Leliana; sent crashing into a bookcase, or worse - a wall. 

“Dorian” he tried, but it seemed as if he was speaking to a statue. The only reply was another heart-wrenching shriek. He wondered if this was the blow that had snapped his mage’s mind at last. He tried again.

“Dorian?” he pressed a hand to the mage’s cheek and it came away soaking wet with tears. Dorian sobbed hysterically, and for a moment Icthlarin hoped that he had gotten through to him. Then another howl tore itself from the mage’s throat and since Icthlarin had pressed his hand to his lover’s cheek he no longer held onto his robe. The consequence of this was that the gust of wind struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards a few feet. It was sheer luck that he remained standing. 

He tried to move forward to embrace Dorian again, but another wail made him stumble back again. This time he fell backwards due to the chair that was lying thrown, broken, just behind him. A sharp pain in his shoulder stunned him for a few moments, but then he crawled stubbornly to his feet. The pain was radiating so strongly from Dorian it felt as if his own heart was splitting in two, and he only had one thought in his head; comfort him. 

He had taken about two steps in Dorian’s direction when he was knocked back again, his feet slipping uselessly on the stone floor. He looked around for something to hold on to, for it was like attempting to climb a steep mountainside in the pouring rain. His feet found no support, his eyes were watering to the point that he could barely see. But that didn’t really matter; what  _ did _ matter was the cries of pain from the man he loved. 

Dorian was not howling as much now as sobbing; great heaving sobs that made his entire body shake. Icthlarin hurt for him, making another attempt to reach and embrace him. But he must have struck his head when he fell over the chair as he felt dizzy and wobbly, and when another gust of air struck him head on he didn’t really stand a chance.

Icthlarin was thrown backwards once again - and this time true tragedy struck. He had not noticed, but he stood in front of one of the finely made stained glass windows that had cost First Enchanter Vivienne a fortune to commission. And when this last gush of wind pushed him backwards, he collided with it. But glass cannot hold a man’s body, not even a dainty one - and it shattered. Since there was now nothing in the way, and Icthlarin still could not find neither balance nor something to hold onto, he found himself falling backwards, the splintering of glass ringing in his ears. The pain from where the shards dug into his body was a mere whisper to the terror that overtook him as he fell, head-first, from the window. He screamed nearly as loud as Dorian, but his cry was from fear - and the horror of the realization that he was going to die. His cry was cut short as his body impacted with the cobblestones in the courtyard below with a sickening  _ crunch _ .


	12. nothing there to break my fall

 

_ Long ago I should have seen _ _   
_ _ All the things I could have been _ _   
_ _ Careless and unthinking, I moved onward _ _   
_ _ \- Beauty and the Beast, "If I Can't Love Her" _ __   
  


 

Dorian came back to himself with a start when he felt the bond to Icthlarin snap like a twig. Mid-howl he went quiet, still as a statue, and stared with uncomprehending eyes at the carnage around him. 

“No” he gasped, “nonononono.” This was too familiar, he had been here before, in another library, realising the damage only when it was far, far too late. he looked around wildly, taking in the petrified mages pressing themselves against the walls to hide from his wrath. Leliana lying motionless on the floor in her own blood. Then his eyes fell on the shattered window. He did not want to, but his feet bore him relentlessly towards the window. There was no glass on the floor of the library - so whatever had destroyed it had pushed  _ outwards _ , not  _ inwards _ . With a feeling of sick dread he moved over to stand just by it, his eyes falling on something stuck to a sharp piece of glass. A sliver of blue fabric. It was nothing really, except… When he had at last seen his templar that day, at breakfast, Icthlarin had been wearing a blue shirt. The exact shade of blue as the piece of fabric. The feeling of dread intensified, now mixed with a horrifying suspicion. Against his will, but unable to stop himself, he leaned forward long enough to be able to look out and down towards the courtyard below. His mind started spinning, refusing to take in what he was seeing. It was simply not possible. No, no, no,  _ no _ ! Dorian started to shake. What was left of his heart imploded in his chest, left him feeling empty and hollow. He turned his back slowly, sinking down on the floor. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, numb. He felt nothing. The world slipped away into grey nothingness, the sounds of people around him fading away until there was nothing but silence. There was nothing left, now. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Ilona was puttering about the healing rooms, washing bandages and hanging them to dry, when she was hit with a wave of terror so strong it froze her down to her core. And since her body temperature was naturally just this side of an active volcano, that was saying something. The half-ripped shirt she had been about to cut into more bandages slipped useless from her slender fingers as she stared blankly at nothing, making Adan frown. 

“Ilona?” He asked in a voice that for him had to be considered worried. In other words, it was about half a note less cranky than usual. “What is it?”

Ilona ignored him as she tried to figure out where the feeling had come from, when it hit her again. This time accompanied by an immense sorrow and soul-wrenching despair. In her mind’s eye, she saw red hair and heard a child wail  _ Ona, Ona, Ona! _ . 

“Lari!” She cried in anguish as she gathered her skirts and sprinted from the healing wing. “Lari!”

Adan stared after the fire mage in complete bewilderment, then he rolled his eyes sardonically and went about checking on the tevene altus that was currently his only charge.

“I swear” he muttered to the unconscious man, “the entire keep has gone completely insane.”

 

Ilona ran through Skyhold, so frantic to reach her destination she twice tripped over her own feet and was sent sprawling on the floor. She did not care for the bruises that formed on her arms or the tear that she made in her robe, just scrambled back to her feet and kept running. She had to hurry; time was running out. She could feel it in her entire body; her chest ached, her lungs screamed for air, her throat constricted, her arms and legs felt impossibly heavy. But it was as if these sensations were not hers; her own body was light, almost buoyant, like a bird in flight. A terrified bird, chased by a hawk. 

She was in such a hurry she almost sent herself head first down the heavy stone stairs leading to the courtyard, but luckily she had just enough sense to pull up her robes to avoid tripping. She practically flew towards the small cluster of people standing gathered around a crumpled form lying sprawled just below an ornate window.

“Out of my way!” She screeched, “he’s my brother!” Where those words came from she had no idea, but the moment she spoke them she knew they were they were true. It was her brother, lying there. A brother she had not seen for almost sixteen years.

And now he was dying. 

No! She wasn’t going to let him leave her now that she’d just realised who he was. It was as if she had had a missing limb restored to her only to be told it was gangrenous and had to be amputated. She was  _ not _ letting this happen! 

Icthlarin’s eyes were wide and unfocused with pain, but there was still a glimmer of life in them and Ilona held on to that glimmer like her own life depended on it. Vivienne had told her that a part of her powers came from life itself; the flame of life, that burns in every single creature that lives and breathes and laughs and loves. _You are fire,_ the first enchanter had said one late night as Ilona cried over having set her bed on fire for the second time that week. _Fire burns and destroys, yes, but it also cleanses and leaves space for something new to grow._ _You could become a skilled healer, if you learn to control your emotions._ But unfortunately, Ilona had not received instruction for how to _be_ a skilled healer. At this point in time, all she knew was how to heal burns - a skill she practiced almost daily. Usually on herself. She had no idea how to deal with the blood seeping from what seemed to be every opening in Icthlarin’s face. His nose, his mouth, his ears, his eyes - all bleeding, a slow sluggish leak of bright red that was more terrifying than any demon she had ever encountered in the fade. He needed a proper healer. But Adan, their current chief healer since Minaeve’s murder, was not present. She needed to get herself together, and fast. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing” she whispered as she raised her slim hands over him like she had seen Adan do, “so… I’m sorry.”

 

~~~~~~

 

Cole knelt amongst the rubble, careful not to have any of it dig into his legs. He had learnt by experience that such things hurt. He looked at the mage in front of him, taking in the slack face and vacant eyes. Dorian seemed not to be aware of his presence, lost somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind.

“Can you reach him?” Vivienne asked with a note of impatience in her voice. The First Enchanter stood a few feet away, her arms crossed in agitation and a look of impotent anger on her face. Behind her, several servants and even a few templars were moving slowly and carefully, cleaning up the mess and helping the wounded mages. Leliana had been carried out on a stretcher several minutes ago, a crying Josephine refusing to let go of her hand. 

“Yes” Cole said simply. “But it might take some time.”

“Good” Vivienne said, trying to keep from sounding too angry. She turned on her heel and surveyed the damage Dorian had caused, hands now resting on her hips. The stance radiated anger, but all Cole saw was sorrow. There were those who said that madame la fer was as heartless as a tranquil, but Cole knew better. Vivienne loved her keep, and every one of the mages within it. Like a stern, intimidating mother who acts dominant but really just wants what she thinks is best for you. She just wasn’t very good at asking you what  _ you  _ thought was best for you.

Cole raised his hands and placed them on Dorian’s face. Cole had no need for touch, but remembered what Leliana had told him about skin contact and how a wounded soul usually felt better if you touched them. 

 

Carefully, he started picking through the rubble of Dorian’s mind, searching for the center. He navigated past all the bad memories, the good memories (most of them having something to do with Wren or Icthlarin), and the secrets that were still shrouded in darkness. Cole did not touch those; he knew he could heal them, but he was not supposed to heal such things unless specifically asked to. He could, however, soothe the despair and make the pain easier to carry. Slipping further inside, like the tide washes over a rocky shore, Cole left his body and flowed into Dorian.

 

It was dark. Very, very dark, and somewhere he heard the shattering of glass. Moving slowly, so as not to alarm the resident, Cole moved across Dorian’s mind landscape, struggling against the strong winds that roared unendingly across the desert plain. The sand was heavy to walk through, but Cole kept going. He sensed he was near the center now, that part where Icthlarin rested, safe in his mage’s mind. Then he saw it; a small tent on the middle of the plain, red as the templar’s hair, stood proud and resilient in the storm. Cole carefully opened the flap and crawled inside.

Dorian sat cross-legged on the floor, sobbing quietly. His face was in his hands, and everything about him exuded misery. Glancing around quickly, Cole saw piles upon piles of books and scrolls, all of them in different shades of green. Every single one of those shades, Cole realised, was reflected in Icthlarin’s eyes. 

Once more, he knelt before Dorian. But this time, he spoke.

“He is not dead, Dorian.” The other mage looked up with a jerk, staring at Cole in terror. He calmed somewhat when he realised who it was.

“Cole? Why are you- oh. The First Enchanter sent you.”

“Yes.” Cole nodded, wondering again at people’s need of stating the obvious. “He is not dead” he repeated instead. Dorian laughed bitterly.

“I threw him headfirst out of a second story window. Of course he is dead!” He laughed hysterically, fresh tears forcing their way from his eyes. 

“Ilona felt him fall.” Cole said, shaking his head. “She saved him.” 

“Ilona felt- how?”

“I do not know. Perhaps she was supposed to. Perhaps she knows something we do not. It does not matter. Your templar lives, Dorian. And you need to come out now.” Dorian wiped away the insistent tears, hands shaking.

“Wren is dead” he whispered hollowly. Cole nodded.

“Yes, Wren is dead. But Icthlarin is alive.” 

Dorian nodded sharply and stood up, legs shaky. Cole hesitated, but figured that if the other mage wanted support he’d ask. 

Exiting the tent, Cole saw that the light had started to peak through the black storm clouds, and the winds had calmed. They still whipped about their ears, and there was so much anger and pain in them, but calmer nonetheless.

“Thank you” Dorian whispered as Cole let himself float away from his centre, flowing back into his own familiar, dark twisted maze.

 

Cole opened his eyes and blinked a few times, seeing that life had returned to Dorian’s vacant gaze. 

“I’m sorry” the tevene rasped out as he struggled to stand. “Maker, I am so sorry.”

“I know” Vivienne said calmly. She showed no trace of having accepted the apology, but Cole knew she had and that she had forgiven him. “Go to your templar, Dorian.”

Dorian obeyed his First Enchanter, leaving the library slowly with his head down.

“Well done” Vivienne told Cole. “You’re getting stronger.”

 

~~~~~~

 

In the healing wing, Dorian sank into a rickety chair and tried to make sense of the world as he looked at his father’s pale, sleeping face. Halward Pavus looked so small, so fragile, not at all the strong severe man that Dorian remembered from his childhood. This man looked like a soft breeze might knock him over. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“Father” Dorian said in a low voice, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. He had not spoken it for several years. Not since… since  _ that _ day. That horrible, horrible day that he had last seen his parents. The day he had fled for Skyhold. Now here they were, seven years later, and there was still a chasm between them. A chasm he had no idea how to cross, if he even wanted to. 

Halward’s eyes slowly flickered open to look at his son.

“Dorian” he sighed, voice strained and tired.

“Father. How come you have have not yet departed?”

“Because I need to speak to you.”

“There is nothing to say, remember? You said so yourself.”

Halward’s eyes were sad.

“Yes” he agreed, “I did.” His gaze flickered to the pitcher on his bedside table and Dorian poured him a glass of water. He might be unhappy to see the man, but he was not above common courtesy. Halward thankfully accepted the glass and drank deeply. Then he continued:

“I know what I said then, but things have changed, child.”

“I am not a child anymore.” And he did not sound petulant, either.

“No, I know you are not. You are a man in your own right. And I… I am old, Dorian.” 

“Rot, you’re barely fifty.” 

“In body, perhaps. But in spirit… I feel ancient.” Halward tried to smile., but it came across as more of a grimace. Dorian did not make a single expression in return, choosing instead to look as impenetrable as Skyhold herself. Halward closed his eyes and sighed deeply, before slowly opening them.

“I am dying, child.”


	13. what I have done, I have done for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been very hopeful, so far.  
> Now for the first time, I think we're going wrong.  
> Hurry up and tell me, this is just a dream.  
> \- Mary Magdalene, "Could We Start Again, Please?"  
> (Jesus Christ Superstar)

Dorian sat shock still, not comprehending the words. Dying? But that was impossible. His father was as stalwart as a mountain. 

“Don’t be ridiculous” he protested, “Adan said your brain got rattled, but you’ll heal just fine if you just stay in bed.” He tried for a chipper, nonchalant tone, but it didn’t come out quite right.

“Child” the stern tone in Halward’s voice made him sink into his chair. He hung his head like a little boy being chastised. He  _ hated _ when his father used that tone.

“Firstly” Halward said, still sounding stern, “I have been sick for close to a year, but your First Enchanter wouldn’t hear of me coming to see you earlier. She said that you were too unstable.” Dorian felt ashamed. It was true; he had been rather unstable lately. But after Icthlarin’s arrival… his eyes softened as he thought of the man.

“You are thinking about your… templar, aren’t you?”

Dorian nodded.

“Does he make you happy?” Halward pressed on. Dorian nodded again. “Good. That’s... good.” Halward closed his eyes momentarily, as if drawing strength. “I’ve seen you with him” he went on, sounding tired. “You look like… like I wish I had with your mother, before…” Dorian flinched.

“I am sorry, father.”

“I know. But it was an accident. A tragic accident, but it brought something good with it. It brought you here, where you could get the training we were unable to give you in our arrogance. Dorian, you are much much more powerful than I ever realised. You-” he broke off to cough, then steeled himself to continue. “You can bring down the very winds themselves, control them like one controls an unruly pack of dogs. Your anger is thunder and your joy is a clear sky. I have never seen power like yours, and I thought I could control it by controlling  _ you. _ In the end, that foolish belief cost me everything that truly mattered. It cost me you.”

Dorian looked away, unable to face the sorrow in his father’s eyes.

“You lost me long before that” he whispered, “when you-” but he couldn’t finish the sentence. It still hurt too much.

“I know. And I am sorry, Dorian. I don’t know how I can ever make it right.”

“I… I don’t know if you can” Dorian replied, reluctantly. He saw that the words pained his father, but they had to be said. He wasn’t sure it would ever be alright between them again. Especially not... not if Halward was really dying. Then they were out of time.

Halward raised a shaking hand in a silent plea, and Dorian took it with some reluctance. It had been many, many years since he touched his father or was touched by him. It felt like touching a stranger.

“Dorian” Halward went on, his voice low and exhausted, “there is something you need to know. You are not safe here.”

“If you are worried about the fennec-”

“There is that, too, of course, but that is not my main concern. Dorian… I did not fall down those stairs. I was pushed.”

Dorian froze, feeling every drop of blood leave his head. It left him light-headed and dizzy. 

“What...what do you mean?” He stammered, reeling from his father’s words. But it was what he said next that really sent Dorian’s world off-kilter and spinning at full speed into disbelief and insanity.

“Your templar. Icthlarin. He pushed me.”

 

* * *

 

Ilona gave a limping Leliana a disapproving glare as the older woman made her way out of the library, but Leliana just levelled her with one of those annoying stony looks of hers and kept going. Seeing that Adan was scowling after the other woman, Ilona figured that her disapproval neither helped nor hindered and left it at that. Instead, she made her way over to a patient that was not stubborn enough to check himself out of the healing wing before Adan considered him fit for duty. She sat down on Icthlarin’s bedside, careful and slow in her moments so as not to jostle him unduly.

“You’re healing very well” she said by way of greeting, and his tired eyes that had just closed wearily opened again to meet her gaze.

“All thanks to you, I’ve come to understand” Icthlarin murmured, his voice coming out slurred from too much sleep and too little rest. She held a cup to his lips, supporting his head so he could drink.

“Thank you” he said, sounding much better, as he relaxed against the pillows.

“Anytime” she replied softly.

There was silence. Ilona knew she had other duties to tend to, but found herself reluctant to leave his bedside. There was something about him that called her like a moth to a flame, and she didn’t understand it. He was not her templar; if nothing else the bonding symbol on his hand was a stark reminder of that. But something had happened in the courtyard as she healed him. However, she could not remember what that had been even if her life depended on it. His eyes were the bright green of veilfire, and it was a colour that resonated deep within her being. She had seen that eye colour before, she knew it as well as she knew her own brown eyes. There was something there, in those green eyes as the looked up at her through those long eyelashes. They seemed so unfathomably sad, like there was something she should remember. 

“I’m sorry” she whispered, not knowing what she was apologizing for.

“I know.” He whispered, giving her a tired half-smile that immediately made her heart feel brighter. She was just about to say something else - what, she did not know - when she was interrupted by a gale of wind strong enough to knock her to the floor. Then, Dorian was standing at the foot of Icthlarin’s bed, his face like thunder. He looked like a furious god about to punish a non-believer.

“Is it true?” He snarled, furious.

“Is what true?” Icthlarin’s voice sounded innocently bewildered, but his eyes were firmly fixed on his bandaged arm as if he felt guilty about something.

There was another burst of wind that knocked over a nearby pitcher, spilling its contents all over the floor. Ilona cursed quietly and crawled over to see if it had shattered.

“Did. You. Push. My.  _ Father. _ Down. The. Stairs?” Dorian not-quite yelled and Ilona could clearly hear the punctuation after every word. She stopped picking at the shards of the pitcher, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The silence, which had been pregnant before, turned down-right  _ bursting _ . Like a woman realising half-way through labour that she’ll be having triplets.

“I-” Icthlarin started, healthy hand worrying the blanket.

“DID YOU?” …better make that quadruplets. Icthlarin said nothing, but he did not need to; his stricken face spoke volumes. Dorian looked like he didn’t know whether to scream, cry or storm out.

“Why?” he hissed, struggling to keep hold of his temper.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you!” Icthlarin cried, “Ne'emma sa’lath ! He was going to taking you away!” 

Ilona sat up slowly, wondering if the storm had passed or if it was just starting. Her hip was smarting from her fall and her hands stung where she had cut herself on the broken pottery. She felt like having a bit of a cry about it, but was too scared to make a sound lest it draw the attention of her fellow mage. Mostly because Dorian looked like he was about to release a spectacular tornado on them. 

“You couldn’t stand losing me.” He said, his voice flat in a way that made both Ilona and Icthlarin shudder in horror. “Well” he went on, “you just have.” With those words, Dorian turned on his heel and stalked out of the healing wing with as much dignity he could muster, ignoring Icthlarin’s anguished wail of

“Ir abelas! Ir abelas, ma'arlath! Ir abelas!  _ Ir abelas! _ ” . 

 

* * *

 

Ilona knelt on the floor and considered her options. She could run after Dorian, but they weren’t very close friends and she had a feeling he would only use her for target practice. Meanwhile, the templar she knew but did not know was sobbing as if his heart was shattering a mere two feet away from her. And Ilona, bleeding heart that she was, had never been able to walk away from someone who was crying. So she crawled to her feet slowly, and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Then she waited patiently until the worst of the hysterical sobbing quieted down to soft sobs and sniffles, accompanied by what seemed to be an unending torrent of tears.

“Want to talk about it?” She asked, gently.

“What is there to say?” Icthlarin gasped out amongst his sobs. “He does not love me anymore.”

“Of course he does.”

“No, you heard him” Icthlarin cried, completely beside himself. “I have lost him! I wish I was dead!”

“You have  _ not _ lost him. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t be so angry with you. No one makes us angrier - or hurts us deeper - than the ones we love.”

“I hurt him” Icthlarin lamented, as more tears streamed from his devastated eyes.

Ilona sighed. Of course that would be the one part he heard.

“Yes, you did. So how are you going to make it up to him?”

He finally deigned to look at her, and her heart clenched at the despair in his eyes.

“I don’t know” he whispered, “I panicked… he is all I have, there is nothing-” And in his eyes she could see a soul-deep loneliness that made her heart break for him. She saw a desperately lonely, unwanted child who held on with everything he had to the first person who loved him. Who was willing to do anything - even kill - to keep that love.

“Has anyone ever loved you?” She whispered, tears welling up in her throat and dimming her gaze. 

“My… my father. Before he… died. My sister.” 

“Where is your sister?”

“She… fire danced over her hands… they saw. They took her away.” He sank back onto the pillow, clearly exhausted, ears still slipping down his cheeks. “She forgot me a long time ago.” And it was as if a door that had until then been slightly ajar in Ilona’s mind flew open to let in the sun. Her own tears started to slip down her cheeks as she slowly raised her hand, letting a tiny flame appear over her palm. It twisted and turned, and she let it twirl across and around her outstretched fingers. It was a simple little trick that she had learned when she was little. Her brother… her brother had never tired of seeing it. And she had never tired of showing him.

“She remembers now” she sobbed as the flame danced over her hand. “Lari, she remembers now.”

“Ona?” He whispered, a tiny flicker of hope in his eyes. She smiled through her tears and she dismissed the flame with a flick of her hand..

“Yes” she replied as she laid down beside him, cheek to cheek like they had lain then. When they were small and shared a bed, father tucking them in and singing lullabies. Lari’s cheek was wet with tears, hot with fever, and it fit perfectly against hers.

“Ona,” he whispered, “what have I done?”


	14. we are too old for fairy-tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You read me a chapter of storybook love--  
> My hope overcame my suspicion.  
> You spoke of ideals, and you made it seem real--  
> I suppose we both knew it was fiction.  
> \- Heather Dale, "Story Book"

The Iron Bull adjusted his pack as he started to descend from the mountain. He felt old, worn, and bloody exhausted. He had to keep reminding himself that each step was another step away from the place where he had found - and lost - everything.  _ Kadan _ . The word was heavy in his chest, aching with loss and sorrow and things unsaid. He hated himself for never having said the words. What would have been so bad about it? The feelings had been there, were still there, but now they felt more like broken glass than anything else. But Wren, his beautiful kadan, was gone. Taken by a killer who was still at large. The Iron Bull swore to himself that he was going to catch that bastard. Then he was going to rip him to shreds to avenge Wren. To avenge himself. 

“Boss” Krem’s voice broke him out of his grim thoughts. 

“I’m okay” he said gruffly, and even though it was clear that his second in command didn’t believe him, Bull was grateful when the other man let it go. No, he wasn’t alright. Perhaps he never would be. But with each day, he breathed a little easier. Walked a little taller. One day he would be alright. One day he might even love again, find some happiness. Someone he dared to say the words to. 

Wren would have liked that.

 

* * *

 

Dorian stood in the door to the healing wing, watching a dark-haired elf woman change the sheets on Icthlarin’s bed. Well, it wasn’t Icthlarin’s now, was it? The templar had been discharged earlier that day. Dorian had never had much to do with Ilona; she was younger than him, not only in age but in behaviour. Just a girl, she was rather immature and her temper was at times more volatile than his. But her heart was in the right place and she had known his templar was injured before he had and she had come to his rescue.

“How did you know?” He asked and then realised it was completely the wrong way to start a conversation. Ilona shrieked in fright and dropped the pillow, spinning around to face the threat with her arms already on fire. When she saw him, the flames disappeared but her frown stayed.

“You scared the crap out of me!” She cried shrilly and Dorian winced.

“I know, I’m sorry” he said as a way of an apology. “But how did you know? That Icthlarin was injured?” Ilona bent down to pick up the pillow from the floor.

“I knew because… because my bond with him is nearly as deep as yours.” Dorian frowned. He did not like the sound of that. Once more, that beast called jealousy started stirring in his breast. 

“What do you mean?” He demanded. Ilona would not look at him.

“I was five when I was discovered and brought to a circle” she began, “I remember very little. But I remember my brother. He had green eyes and red hair.” Dorian’s frown disappeared as the pieces began to slot into place. 

“We were twins” Ilona whispered, “I called him Lari.”

Dorian stared at his fellow mage, and he could see it. The shape of her face, her mouth, the way she laughed.

“You’re- you’re his sister.” he whispered. Ilona nodded again. The two mages stood in silence, neither knowing what to say or who was to begin. Finally, Ilona started making the bed again, as if needing an outlet for her nerves. As she worked, she spoke.

“I know he did something terrible” she said, “and I am not just saying this because I am his sister and I love him. But you are his whole world. Those words he called after you? I asked Dalish right before they left - she’s one of Bull’s chargers - and she said it means  _ I’m sorry my love _ .” Dorian swallowed hard. They had never said those words to each other, he and Icthlarin. 

“Please” Ilona went on, her voice now pleading. She still wouldn’t look at him. “He is your templar, for better or worse you are more than married. You belong together. He did what he did out of fear of losing you. I beg of you, Dorian, do not make that fear come true.” Finally she raised her head, and her wide brown eyes had the same look of pleading in them as Icthlarin had earlier, and to Dorian there was no doubt she was telling the truth when she claimed to be his templar’s sister. She looked just like him, but darker. It was nearly impossible to look at her, so Dorian turned away and walked over to the window. The weather was grey, the sky more than hinting at rain, and as he stood there he tried to think. Icthlarin had tried to murder his father. Was there really any way to forgive him for that? Even if he did love him. Dorian blinked. Wait, he loved Icthlarin? He closed his eyes and shook his head, but all he saw was the way his templar smiled. The sparkle in his eyes. The look of awe and adoration on his face as they made love. Yes. He loved him. But was that enough to forgive him?

 

* * *

 

Icthlarin closed the door slowly, the click of the lock feeling like it was the end. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he stood still and silent with his forehead resting against the smooth wood, wondering bleakly what he was supposed to do now. Everything he had worked for lay in shambles at his feet, everything he had ever hoped had turned to dust. He had never felt lonelier in his entire life.

 

He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t lonely; when he was really, really small, he remembered warmth and laughter. He remembered strong arms holding him tight and Sister  _ \- Ona - _ laughing. Then Ona had gone away, and the arms had not held him anymore. He didn’t know if it had been winter, but he remembered how cold he had been. How he had cried in the night but no one had comforted him. No one had held him. Just like no one was holding him now. He had found her again, at long last, but… she had her own life. Friends. A purpose. Icthlarin had… well, nothing. And it was all through his own actions. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep the chill at bay, but it came from deep within his soul and there was no protection from it. The first tear that slipped down his cheek felt like an icicle.

 

He remembered being alone, always alone, always on the outside looking in; never fitting in, never wanted. Never welcome anywhere. The other children had laughed at his strange eyes and his odd manner, the adults had looked at him with pity before turning their eyes away.  _ There he goes, the little orphan. Mendanbar’s bastard. _ He had sought companionship from the animals of the forest, but each time the clan moved he had been forced to leave his furry friends behind. More tears slipped unbidden, unwanted, from his eyes as he slowly raised his heavy head. He looked blankly at the wooden door for a moment, before turning slowly, slowly to look at the room.

 

He had never had such a nice room before. In fact, he had not actually had a room until he joined the templars. He had slept rough, with the animals or on the ground by the campfire. Not until he joined the templars had he had a room, a bed, somewhere to call his home. But it hadn’t been a real home either, only temporary. He had always known that, known that one day there would be a mage, his mage, the one who would be his. Someone to whom he would be more than Mendanbar’s bastard. 

 

Funny word, that.  _ Bastard.  _ Humans put more meaning into it than elves, he had found. To elves, a bastard was simply a child born to an unmarried parent. To humans, a bastard was also a despicable character, unworthy of any respect. Perhaps  _ Mendanbar’s bastard _ was more accurate than he had ever thought it was. He was a monster, wasn’t he? A killer, little more than a wild beast. He looked down at his healthy hand, the one not wrapped in thick white bandages and tied across his chest. He had small hands, the keeper had said once. Unmanly. Weak hands. But they were strong enough to push a grown man down a flight of stairs, weren’t they? Strong enough to nearly take a life. Strong enough to ruin something beautiful. His tears were cold as ice as they fell on his cursed hands. 

 

Beautiful. Those first few months at Skyhold, could he call them something else? Beautiful, glorious months when he had been in Dorian’s arms and thinking he belonged there, was wanted there, was born to rest there. How could he have been so foolish? His own clan hadn’t wanted him. Why would someone like Dorian want him? What did he  _ truly _ have to offer? Nothing. A half-decent warrior who couldn’t hold a sword and had to contend with daggers. A blabbermouth who didn’t know when to shut up. Always in trouble, always saying the wrong thing. Always doing the wrong thing. 

 

Icthlarin moved slowly through the room, as if his body would shatter if he taxed it too heavily. He slowly pulled out, with an unsteady hand, the satchel that had once held everything he owned. When he left Amaranthine. He had been hopeful then, for the first time since he had been little and lost the warm arms around him and made himself forget Ona’s smile. Hopeful in a way he had not been even when he arrived in Amaranthine two years previous, penniless, with only the clothes on his back; hungry and dirty and begging at the Warden Commander’s feet. He remembered how he had scrubbed pots and dug latrines those first few months, until the night when one of the more grabby apprentices had refused to take no for an answer. How he, after it was over, had slit the man’s throat in the darkness behind the stables and left him to bleed out. He’d had a knife after that, never vulnerable and unprotected again. Duncan had been impressed. Impressed enough to conscript him. Had given him the old, worn satchel for his belongings. The same satchel he laid on the bed now.

 

He had to rely on memory as he moved around the room, because the tiny droplets of ice insisted in leaking from his eyes and down his cheeks as he slowly, oh so slowly, packed what few items he had brought with him, were blinding him to the world. He left everything else, everything he had received at Skyhold, behind. The little notes Dorian had written, the flower he had pressed and hidden behind two books. He could not look at it without remembering the mage laughing and putting it in his hair. Finally he stood there, holding his satchel and that’s when he realised.

 

Where was he to go? To his sister? But she did not need him, she had lived without him for sixteen years and had turned out brilliant. His clan would not receive him. Back to Amaranthine? He was a templar now, a proper templar. There was no reason for a templar to return to the training grounds. Into the wilds, then? Live alone amongst the animals like when he was young? Perhaps. But he did not know what sort of wildlife lived outside the keep, and surely he would freeze to death on the mountain before he found any. He felt helpless, like an abandoned child. His eyes were blurry and his chest ached so much it was hard to breathe, but still he had not made a sound. There is some sorrow that does not have any sound. Some sorrow, is simply too deep to be heard. 

 

The knock on the door sounded like the hopeful ringing of a chantry bell and a death toll at the same time. Icthlarin slowly crossed the room, still holding the satchel, and opened the door. Hoping against hope that it would be Dorian. That Dorian would gather him in his arms and let him weep and rock him slowly like he had seen lovers do. He would have done  _ anything _ for it to be Dorian. But it wasn’t Dorian.

 

The man on the other side looked at Icthlarin with eyes that saw the silent sorrow, the lonely boy in the cold. Eyes that saw the lost child that was a bastard in the human sense and the elven sense and who had nowhere to go but dared not stay. He hugged that child. He let that child weep into his shirt. He rocked that child like a babe. He kissed away its tears like a father would. And then he wrapped a rope around the child's neck.

When the darkness closed in, Icthlarin wasn’t frightened. 

He welcomed it. 

 


	15. and the world keeps turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I ask for your help now,  
> Can all this be turned back around?  
> But the clock's hands, they are prison bars  
> They won't take me back tonight.  
> \- Aquaswept, "Prison Bars"

Ilona stared at Dorian’s back for what felt like an eternity, waiting for him to answer. When it was clear that he would not, she gave a deep sigh and started gathering up the used sheets to put them away to be laundered. She hoped fervently that Doran and Icthlarin could work out their issues; from what she had seen of them, they were good together. When they weren’t hurting each other, that was. 

About halfway across the room with the sheets, something ripped through Ilona like a dagger slitting her open from throat to hip. She stumbled and dropped her burden, confused and frightened. Then she felt it again, deeper. And then came the pain. Ilona made a little cry of fear; what was happening to her? Then, a third time, she felt that deep burning cut. This time, she let her instincts take over.

“LARI!” Ilona howled in horror and, still acting on instincts, ran from the healing wing. She had to find him. He needed her.

Dorian spun around at the cry, just in time to see a flash of a red robe and dark hair as Ilona flew from the healing wing in a complete panic. For a moment he stood indecisive, then thought once more of his templar. The last time Ilona had panicked and ran to Icthlarin’s aid, he had been dying. Dorian paled.  _ Dying _ . His templar. He frantically searched his mind for the bond that had become so frayed lately. There was nothing.

“No!” Dorian choked out. “No!”

He raced after her.

 

* * *

 

 

Ilona sprinted through the halls of Skyhold, not caring for the shocked people diving out of her way. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to hurry, that something terrible was happening, that her brother needed her. She was in such a hurry she almost collided with the heavy oaken door that led to Icthlarin’s quarters, but managed to stop herself just in time.

She twisted the handle, but it refused to budge. She ripped at it instead, screaming in frustration and desperation. Locked! The blasted door was locked! And her brother needed her! Ilona didn’t think. She focused the flame throbbing inside her into a pillar of fire that within seconds turned the thick wood into cinders and ash. Then she ran through the opening.

He lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, his hair fanning out beneath him like rays from the sun. His normally pale face was a horrifying shade of blue, his lips purple. Around his neck was a thin rope, twisted and torn and pulled tight to cut off his ability to breathe. Ilona wailed again as she threw herself on her brother’s body, clawing at the rope, ripping it off.

She didn’t see a familiar figure slip out the ruins of the door and vanish down an unused corridor. All she saw was the stillness of her brother’s chest and the vacant look in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian stumbled through the charred remains of the door, gasping for breath. Someone brushed past him, nearly knocking him off his feet, but he was too focused on Icthlarin to pay any attention. He fell to his knees beside the sobbing Ilona, praying to the Maker that they were not too late. He rested a hand on Icthlarin’s chest and thought of laying his head there; he never had and now he might never get to. 

“Amatus” he begged, still winded, “please, please amatus, don’t leave me…”

Maybe Icthlarin heard him. Dorian did not know. He would never know. It did not matter. What mattered was that Icthlarin gasped, coughed, and opened his beautiful eyes. They were unfocused, and he did not seem fully aware of his surroundings. But he was alive. Thank the Maker, he was  _ alive! _

Dorian could not help but smile at his templar. He had not lost him. They still had a chance to work things out.

 

* * *

 

 

Ilona tucked a weakly protesting Icthlarin back into ‘his’ bed in the healing wing, smiling all the while.

“Shush” she told him, “I’ve changed the sheets and everything. Now be quiet and get some rest.” She turned her smile on Dorian, then walked away to give them some privacy. That, and she needed to find the First Enchanter to tell her that the fennec had struck again - but that the victim had survived.

“Dorian” Icthlarin croaked, his eyes pleading.

“I’m here.”

“Please. Ir abe- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” Dorian was about to continue, but was interrupted by a highly irate Adan storming over to them.

“If you are trying to get yourself killed” he ranted, “then convincing Knight Commander Pentaghast to permit you to use the white blade will be much less of a hassle for the rest of us!” 

Dorian looked at Icthlarin, expecting him to argue, but the templar turned his face away in shame. Another puzzle piece fell into place in Dorian’s mind, and it broke his heart as it did.

“You weren’t” he whispered, “but you made no attempt to save yourself either.” Icthlarin shot him a quick, pain-filled gaze but said nothing.

Dorian shook his head, feeling numb. His templar,  _ his templar,  _ had not fought for his life. Had been willing to die.

“I… I need to go.” He choked out. “I need to think.” Icthlarin’s hand, which had been raised as if seeking his own, fell limply back down onto the bed. He closed his eyes again, nodding resignedly. Adan, however, was clearly pleased.

“Good! You are not injured, so you don’t need to be here! Out!” Icthlarin licked his lips, wetting them, before whispering;

“Ar lath ma.” Dorian nodded jerkily. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he could guess.  _ I love you.  _ He couldn’t deal with this right now, he thought as he walked slowly out of the healing wing. He needed… he needed to talk to Wren. 

Behind him, Icthlarin cried.

 

* * *

 

 

This was one of the strangest situations he had ever found himself in, but Dorian desperately needed to talk to his best friend. So here he was, in a private part of the garden that also served as a memorial. There was a willow tree casting it’s shadow over a stone bench covered in ivy and a small fountain, babbling quietly to itself. In front of the bench, next to the fountain, were several stones carved with names and dates. The tradition on Skyhold was to cremate the dead and scatter their ashes from the highest tower, letting them disperse on the winds that swept over the mountains, but it was still nice to have a place to go. A place where there was something to touch, something that bore a name.

The stone that read  _ Wren Trevelyan _ was of white orlesian marble polished until it was as soft as a lover’s caress, and Dorian ran his finger over the smooth surface as he knelt before it.

“Hello my friend” he said softly, feeling tears burn in his eyes. His fingers traced the outline of the name and the dates, telling whoever looked at the stone that the mage had only been twenty-four when his life was cut short. So young, he had been so impossibly young. Like Dorian was. Like Icthlarin was. Dorian let his hands trace the smaller print beneath, a quote he expected Vivienne had chosen; ‘ _ What good are wings, without the courage to fly?’ _ _. _ And beneath, in so small a script Dorian at first thought he was imagining it;  _ kadan _ . He did not know what the word meant, but clearly it meant a lot to someone. He supposed it was Iron Bull who had asked for it; they had been lovers, after all. Even if neither of them had ever said the words, at least not according to Wren. there was a tendril of shame at the thought; Bull and the chargers had left weeks previous, and Dorian had not as much as expressed his condolences to the qunari. It was not only he who had lost someone he loved. He promised himself - and Wren - that he would approach Bull the next time he came to Skyhold. 

“I wish I could talk to you” he told the stone. “Even more, I wish I  _ had _ talked to you while you were here! Maker, Wren, I was so wrapped up in my own drama - and my templar - to spend any time with you.” The tears were hot and bitter on his cheeks, refusing to let themselves be held back any longer. “Forgive me” Dorian sobbed, his hand still resting on the headstone. He imagined he could see the other mage, just beyond the willow tree. Wren was in his usual blue robes, his hair loose and free in the soft breeze.

_ Of course I forgive you, _ the wind whispered.  _ Love makes fools of us all, was it not you who said that? _

Dorian sobbed harder, rocking slowly in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. And as he cried, he told the phantom Wren everything. He told about the arguments, his insecurity as Icthlarin flirted with every man in sight, how he had lashed out over and over again. That his father, his only link to the past, was dying from an unknown disease. That Dorian’s templar had tried to murder his father. About the horrifying events in the library. About how the fennec had come for his templar. How Icthlarin was in so much emotional pain, he had not fought for his life. How he had nearly lost him. He talked until his voice was hoarse and his tears made the world blurry. 

“Help me” Dorian gaspingly begged the phantom, “I’m coming apart, I’m so scared Wren. I don’t know what to do. Help me.” But the phantom did not answer him; just stood there, just beyond reach. 

“Help me” Dorian sobbed again, his chest hurting so much it hurt to breathe. He leant forward, resting his forehead against the headstone as he wept, great heaving sobs making his entire body tremble. “Maker, Wren, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

Dorian cried for what seemed like eternity, but eventually the tears ran dry as they always do. Exhausted, he knelt before his best friend’s last resting place, feeling completely drained. He felt empty, lost, and impossibly weary to the bone. 

_ Forgiveness is twice-blessed,  _ the wind finally whispered.  _ It blesses both he who gives, and he who takes _ _. _

“You mean mercy” Dorian whispered, smiling despite himself. Wren never bothered with keeping his quotes straight. 

_ Forgive him,  _ the Wren-wind sighed, not caring for his correction.  _ And once you have forgiven him, forgive yourself. You are only human, Dorian. Humans make mistakes. If they did not, they would be angels. Forgiveness is twice-blessed… _

Dorian wiped his tears. Of course, Wren was right. And for once, he did not rub Dorian’s face in it. 

“Forgiveness is twice-blessed” Dorian whispered when he, at long last, felt steady enough to leave. “Thank you, my friend. Sleep well.”

The wind stroked his cheek in fond farewell.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian walked slowly back to the healing wing, feeling exhausted. It felt like he was trapped in a furious tornado, thrown back and forth by winds that never seemed to stop ripping at his skin. Winds that would not bend to his will, too wrapped up in anger and pain and loss and despair to listen. He was so impossibly tired, wanting nothing more than to sleep for about a week. Preferably in his templar’s arms. He stood outside the door for a moment, trying to find the strength to open it, when it opened on its own and Vivienne stood in the doorway. Her face was as stern as always, but her eyes were gentle. It felt like… like looking into his mother’s eyes and she was going to make it okay. Then something that he never thought would happen, did. Vivienne stapped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It felt like a mother’s embrace, too. Dorian put his shaking arms around her, and then he realised just how small his First Enchanter was. Vivienne always made an impression of being larger than life itself, tall and proud like an empress, but she barely reached his shoulder. 

“Dorian” she said quietly, “I know you have been through so much. But it is not over yet. Your father wants to see you. He doesn’t have much time left.” Then she stepped back, and let him pass.

 


	16. this is us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more I want, the more I steal  
> The more I hold the less is real  
> All worldly things I follow blind  
> In hope not faith was paid in kind  
> The line is drawn, the change is made  
> I come to you, I'm not afraid.  
> \- Elton John, “Without Question”

Dorian felt nothing as he sank into the chair next to his father’s bedside. Nothing but tired and numb, wanting to just go to sleep and never wake again.

Halward opened his eyes.

“Dorian” his voice was weak, no trace of the strong and proud man he had been once. His cheeks were sunken in, his eyes dulled. He reached out his hand, and this time Dorian took it. 

“My son” Halward sighed, “My dear, dear son. What a fine man you have become. Possibly, in spite of me” The compliment was rare, almost unheard of, but Dorian only felt numb when he heard it. Perhaps he would be pleased later. Halward sighed, then went on:

“So much like your mother, headstrong and proud. But you have a good heart in you, and a good man waiting for you.” Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but one look from his father silenced him.

“I know he did something terrible, and in doing so he most likely shortened my life by several months. But… to be honest, I am grateful that he did. Those months would have been full of pain, as I died piece by piece. No, better it ends now when I still have my mind and my son is here.” Dorian nodded again, trying desperately to stay awake even when every fibre of his being was screaming for rest. Halward seemed to understand, for he smiled tiredly at the young mage sitting by his bedside.

“Forgive him” he said gently. “Forgive him, Dorian. He made a mistake. But so have you, in your life. Tell him the truth. Tell him about your mother. And then forgive him - and yourself.” Dorian nodded again, no words coming to him. He sat still and quiet, too numb to even think, holding his father’s hand. Halward smiled at him again, pride glinting in his exhausted eyes. The old mage breathed out in a long, deep sigh. 

He did not breathe in again.

 

* * *

 

There was a soft knock on the door to Dorian’s and Icthlarin’s chambers and Dorian slowly looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed, too exhausted to move.

“Enter!” He called in a brittle voice. There was a moment of silence, then the door handle turned slowly and a dejected figure slowly entered the room, staying just inside the threshold as if unsure of his welcome. Dorian’s heart ached at seeing the red hair hiding the sweet face of his templar. The bandaged arm tied across the man’s chest to keep it immobile while it healed only served to make him look even smaller, more vulnerable. Dorian could sense the trepidation and insecurity come from Icthlarin in waves and it hurt more than he thought possible. This was his templar, the one he was supposed to be as close to as two souls ever could be, and yet they had never been further apart than now.  _ You can have something beautiful _ , Halward whispered somewhere in his mind.  _ Yes, he made a mistake. But so have you, in your life. Talk to him. Tell him the truth. Forgive him - and yourself.  _ Dorian wondered how he was supposed to do that, watching as Icthlarin stood immobile with his healthy hand still resting on the door knob. Dorian said nothing, just stared helplessly at the other man as he felt his eyes sting with tears. Then, in the softest of whispers, the elf said,

“I’m sorry.”

That did it. Dorian made a horrible, embarrassing, wet noise and started to weep in earnest; loud anguished sobs tearing themselves free from somewhere deep inside. He somehow managed to get to his feet, stumbling through the room even though he could barely see through his tears. He fell to his knees in front of Icthlarin and buried his face in his shirt. His arms came around the slender elf's waist and he held on desperately, crying for Icthlarin, for his mother, for his father and at last for himself. It was as if a dam had broken and the tears that had ached inside for all those years finally came out. He sobbed so hard his entire body shook from the force, and the way Icthlarin comfortingly ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair only made him cry more. 

After what felt like an eternity, the tears ran out and he sagged to the floor, exhausted and weary to the bone.

“I suppose” he ground out, his voice hoarse and sore, “that we need to talk.”

“Yes” Icthlarin whispered, “I suppose we do.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian stared into his glass of wine and tried to think of how to begin. The secret that ached inside had been there for years, and it was not easy to allow the wound to be opened. It felt as if the scar tissue that had formed over the gangrenous wound in his soul was being split open by an inexperienced surgeon. But perhaps, this time the wound would finally drain enough to be able to start a true healing.

“I… I have only told my story twice before. To Vivienne, because she had to know if I was to be admitted to the keep. It might be Cassandra that officially leads Skyhold, but nothing happens here without Vivienne giving the go-ahead. Well, and Leliana knowing about it.” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “Wren knew, too. He is…  _ was _ my best friend.” He shot a quick glance at Icthlarin, who sat still and unmoving in the chair where he had sat all evening, his silent gaze heavy on Dorian’s bent head. The elf said nothing, so Dorian drew a deep breath and went on. “Seven years ago, I was locked in a never-ending conflict with my mother. She wanted me to marry some girl of a good family and have children. I wouldn’t hear of it. I said I refused to spend my life living a lie. There were… harsh words exchanged. On this day, she had cornered me in a study hall in one of the grand libraries and she was talking about how she had found the perfect girl to be my wife. It was like.. She was talking  _ at _ me, not  _ to _ me. I got so angry. I… could feel the rage boil within me, like a whirlwind demanding to be set loose. And I… I released it. I don’t know what happened after that.” He drew a long, shaky breath. “When… when i came back to myself, I stood in the midst of complete destruction. There were ripped books and scrolls everywhere, knocked over bookcases and shattered lecterns. And there were… bodies.” a choked sob made its way from his throat. “Eight...eight bodies in total. Seven of them were people I didn’t know, people who just… got in the way. And my mother…” Dorian started to cry, softly. “My mother… was lying at my feet. She was… dead. A lectern had fallen and smashed her head in. I… I killed her.” Dorian looked down at his hands and for a moment fancied them red with blood. 

He waited with bated breath for damnation, for being called monster and murderer. To be condemned. 

It never happened. Instead, Icthlarin slowly began to speak in a low voice, raw and lost.

“When I was five” he began, “I asked my sister to entertain me by making flames dance across her fingers. It was a simple little game she had done many times before, and I saw nothing wrong with it. I didn’t think of the fact that we were just outside a city, where we had been allowed to make our winter camp. My sister always wanted to make me happy, so she did. Two templars walking by saw us.” He worried the hem of his shirt with his hand, refusing to look up. “They took her away immediately. I remember that I cried and screamed and begged them not to take my sister. Father heard my cries and came running, and… when he tried to stop them, one of them… he had a sword.” Icthlarin’s voice trailed off as he lost himself in the memories. “I remember how the blood coloured the snow the same shade as my hair” he whispered. Dorian swallowed hard.

“What happened… after?” He finally asked, careful as if navigating an old mine that could collapse on his head any minute and on top of that was crawling with varghests.

“I… never saw my sister again. The keeper never forgave me. Father was her first, was going to be keeper after her. I… I was shunned. Mendanbar’s bastard. I had been before, along with my sister, but it never mattered. We had each other. But… suddenly I had nothing. Because I wanted… I wanted to see the flames dance.” Dorian stood mute, desperately trying to find something to say to comfort his… lover? Were they still lovers?

“It wasn’t your fault” he finally said. “Your father’s death. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Neither was your mother’s death your fault” Icthlarin looked up slowly, his eyes solemn and sorrowful.

“Not my fault? I  _ killed  _ her!” 

“You didn’t mean to! You didn’t want to! Hell, you weren’t even aware you were doing it!”

“Like I was unaware when I threw you  _ out the window?” _

“Yes!” Icthlarin cried passionately. “You were so lost in your grief I couldn’t reach you! I shouldn’t have gotten that close, I knew you were out of control!”

“Are you saying you only had yourself to blame?” Dorian yelled. How could Icthlarin even  _ think _ something that stupid?

“No, I am saying  _ it was an accident!”  _ The templar yelled back. They stood in the middle of the room, staring at each other, panting with exertion.

“It was an accident, Dorian” Icthlarin said softly. “Just like what happened in the library all those years ago, when your mother died.  _ You are not to blame. _ ” Dorian stared at him, wanting so desperately to believe him. Icthlarin looked back, green eyes bright with pain.

“Not like me, when I attacked your father.” Right, his father. But as Dorian looked at his templar now, so lost and forlorn and heartbroken, his arm in a cast and a black line of bruises around his delicate throat, he could not be angry. He just wanted to hold him and comfort him. And, on some level, he understood.

“I was all you had” he said softly as he moved closer. “You had nothing when you came here, did you?” Icthlarin started to tremble, his eyes flitting all around the room but steadfastly avoiding looking at Dorian. “You were so alone, so desperate for me to love you. And you thought… you thought I would choose my father over you. That I would leave you.”

“You deserve better.” It was little more than a whisper from the depths of a freshly dug grave, but Dorian heard it loud and clear and it struck him like a blow. 

“Amatus” he sighed as he pulled the stiff body close to his. My  beautiful, stupid amatus. What makes you think I want anyone else? You are my templar, my brash, impulsive, loud-mouthed, half-crazy templar. You and I are two halves of the same coin. We are both so afraid to get hurt that we lash out before anyone gets close enough.” Dorian placed his hand under Icthlarin’s chin and forced his face up, forcing him to meet his gaze. He looked back, letting all the love he felt for this broken elf shine through.

“I forgive you, for everything. Will you forgive me, for giving you so much cause to doubt me?”

Icthlarin made a little noise that sounded like he was trying not to cry.

“I forgive you. I love you.” He looked at Dorian with pleading eyes. “Do you still want me?”

“Of course I do” Dorian murmured affectionately. They weren’t all right by a long shot, but they would heal. And they would do it together. Just like they were meant to be.

“Josephine was right” Dorian murmured as he leaned in to kiss trembling lips.

“What do you mean?” Icthlarin choked, sounding like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. 

“Love is not about perfection. It's about finding someone who's broken pieces fit with yours, so that you can be whole together.”

Icthlarin finally smiled, and it was like the sun peeking through rain-heavy clouds.

“We fit” he whispered against Dorian’s lips. 


	17. Epilogue: the perfect ending is a new beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the snows of every winter melt  
> And blossom into spring  
> As the seasons pass, we'll live as one  
> No matter what the years ahead may bring  
> Pocahontas 2, “Between Two Worlds”

Dorian opened his eyes and stretched in the early morning sunlight. He wondered once more if this was going to be a regular thing; being awoken shortly after dawn by the sensation of warm breath on his chest. Then again, he mused as he ran his fingers through the tousled red hair of his sleeping templar, it was a rather nice thing to get used to. Icthlarin lay sprawled on top of him like an extra blanket, warm and snuggly and just heavy enough to keep him anchored in the middle of the storm whirling inside his mind. The window stood slightly ajar, as Icthlarin refused to sleep otherwise, and a chilly breeze was slowly making it’s way through the room. Dorian focused his will briefly, and the breeze obediently turned and headed back outside, leaving the warmth of the slumbering embers behind. Dorian allowed himself a content sigh as he snuggled deeper into the comfortable mattress, pulling his templar a bit closer. Icthlarin stirred, murmuring a low protest, then popped a brilliant green eye open.  

“Morning” he croaked, voice hoarse from sleep and the ecstatic cries of the previous night.

“Morning, amatus” Dorian replied, feeling a soppy, besotted smile spread across his face. His templar’s eyes lit up at the use of the word and he pulled Dorian in for a passionate kiss, not at all ruined by their mutual morning breath. 

 

* * *

 

Down on the mountain path, The Iron Bull and his Chargers were once more braving the snow, bringing with them supplies and news from the rest of the world. Amongst them was also two strangers. The first was dark-haired woman who had a sweet smile but did not speak much. There was a wealth of secrets in her eyes and a sway in her hips that kept Krem entranced. The other was a tall, blond man in templar chainmail, who for parts of the journey had pestered Bull about the fire-starter named Ilona. By the eve, he would be hers.

 

* * *

 

Dorian sighed contentedly and stretched, feeling no need to get up as Icthlarin pressed lazy kisses over his bare chest and shoulders. They weren’t alright yet, they still had issues to work out, but they were getting there. Slowly, day by day, they moved a little closer to being alright. They had been through so much pain, it could only get better from now on. Icthlarin’s kisses and touches were more affectionate than passionate, and all they made Dorian feel was fulfillment. 

“It’s spring” he finally said. Icthlarin laughed softly, laying his head down again to listen to his mage’s steady heartbeat.

“If you say so.” The templar murmured, sounding as content as Dorian felt.

Just outside their window, a bird began to sing. It was a melody full of hope and jubilation, sweet as the smell of flowers after the rain.

“Do you hear that?” Icthlarin asked.

“Yes” Dorian replied, “but I can’t name the bird. I barely know the difference between a hawk and a raven.” Icthlarin laughed again, and it was as sweet as the bird’s song.

“It’s a wren” he said.


End file.
